


Exalted

by saarebitch



Series: Death and the Maiden [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Death, F/M, Sexual Content, Violence, language warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 66
Words: 430,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saarebitch/pseuds/saarebitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her ascension as Maiden of the Hunt, nothing seems to be able to get in Elain of Clan Lavellan’s way. But when a mission to the Conclave goes awry and her friend Sar’een is elevated to Inquisitor, it sets off a chain reaction that will change Elain, Sar’een, and the Dalish – forever. </p><p>Sequel to my fic, Birthright</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One: Autini -- Barbaric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bioware severely dropped the ball on how they treat their Dalish elves in canon --especially in Inquisition--
> 
> I decided to pick up the ball and take it to my house instead. This is a reimagining of a Dalish Inquisitor, a Clan Lavellan that has autonomy, and a story that has gotten bigger than Dragon Age itself, I think. Enjoy~

Warlord Miran watched as the contingent of templars overwhelmed his hunters. The templars were heavily armed and had platemail to the teeth, while his hunters were mostly skirmishers -- just the bows on their backs and leather skins for protection. Standing against them had been brutal. They had fortified their camp as well as they could, but this damned shemlen war was bleeding everywhere. They battered his clan for weeks now, unrelenting in their search for fugitive apostates, and his hunters were exhausted. They were losing this fight, and he faced losing the clan if they didn’t move.

All over a war they weren’t even part of.

The camp was set in an isolated valley outside of Wycome, but even that wasn’t safe from the conflict. It was now in shambles. The halla ran back and forth in their pens, distressed over the loud noises and cries. Aravels burned and a large amount of their food reserves were being cut down with axes by the templar forces. It was savage. Most of the clan were not hunters; non-combatants who spent their time practicing weaving and and herbalism and halla keeping. Clan Silure was relatively peaceful and very small. They had never drawn attention from the Marcher cities, and had good relations with the human traders. This was senseless violence.

He pulled back on his bowstring and let an arrow fly in the ranks of the templars. It did little good. Miran watched helplessly as he saw another hunter fall; a young one, the vallaslin fresh on his face. He had been a promising talent. Now he would feed the worms of the earth. Senseless.

“Miran!” he heard his Second yell from behind him. 

“What is it?” Miran asked as he drew his bow again.

“The reinforcements from Lavellan are here! They need your permission to hunt,” he responded. Miran marveled briefly at Den’s ability to irritate him in the most dire situations, but nodded his affirmation anyways. His Second ran to give them their permission, and Miran let another arrow fly. 

He waited in earnest as his hunters held back the templars with their lives while Lavellan played games with tradition. This was war, not some petty matter of hunting territory. They were wasting precious time -- and lives -- by trying to keep face. Probably not even trying to keep face. If he knew Den, it was one of his dramatic gestures that would make a good hearth story for the other clans who heard about it. The Silures, pressed against the wall, templars nearly wiping them out, but Lavellan remembered the Old Ways, calling on the rights of hunt, and swept in to rescue the drowning Silures in a grand entrance. 

Miran sighed deeply, almost positive this was the case. He vowed not to complain though as he saw the hail of arrows fall on the templars engaging his hunters like rain in a storm. The templars were caught by surprise, and nearly a quarter of them fell down within the first wave. His hunters turned and saw their approaching allies and gave up a mighty cheer. There was a fighting chance now.

“Miran! You look like shit!” Den called to him as he jogged down the hill leading towards their campgrounds. 

“I’ve been fighting almost non-stop for two days. What’s your excuse?” Miran shot back, his face opening to a wide grin.

Den let out a round of his infamous booming laughter and held onto his now expanding gut. As much as he didn’t like it, Den’s laughter was always contagious, and he found himself chuckling along. Better than brooding over what he couldn’t change, he supposed.

“About time you showed up,” he said as he patted him roughly on the back, “We couldn’t hold out much longer.”

“That bad?” 

“Worse,” Miran replied, “You know we aren’t fighters. My hunters aren’t prepared for this kind of onslaught.”

“Maybe you should have prepared them, Miran. The humans don’t stop being humans just because your clan doesn’t ascribe to more aggressive war policies.”

Den gave him a sympathetic look and the easiness of their conversation lifted immediately.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered.

The Maiden of the Hunt walked down the hill towards him now, her Shadow and the elite hunters of their clan behind her, dressed in full armor, well prepared for any battle that came her way. Miran knew right away she was the one who made the show of asking for permission to hunt. It meant he was inviting her to take over. He had hoped that War Lord Den would be the only one leading the reinforcements; the Maiden had not patient with faltering hunters in the Free Marches as of late.

“I’d prefer not to, if it’s all the same to you,” she said as she approached, “What’s the situation?”

He sighed heavily and felt a rush of burning in his ears, “We’re trapped against this hill. My hunters have held their ground, and the bulk of the camp retreated, but the templars have been relentless. That hail of arrows gave the hunters a reprieve, but we’re not out of the woods yet. There was a whole contingent of those lyrium-crazed bastards behind this attack.”

She nodded, her lips pursed. Her eyes gazed over the remnants of their camp, where most of the battle took place now, and she turned to her Banal’ras standing behind her.

“The incursion isn’t large. Provide another round of suppressing fire and then engage them directly. They should all be dead within the hour.”

The grim-faced looking Shadow leaned his head to confirm her instructions and addressed the waiting forces.

“Hunters! On my mark!” he shouted, raising a hand in the air to signal. The band took positions and drew their bows.

“Steady….” he waited for several heartbeats, his signaling hand still up, “NOW!”

They all released at once, and a shower of arrows fell on the waiting templars. He watched with awe as another quarter of them went down one by one, sharp death barrelling down from the sky . Their death cries were the sweetest music, and shouts of joy rang across the ruined camp, his hunters relieved at the timely aid. 

“By my lead Lavellan!” the Shadow ordered, and set off down to the camp to flank the remaining templars. The hunters followed him with a discipline that made Miran jealous, and he reflected on all those years ago when he had tried to bring the Shadow into Clan Silure before he had been oathed to the Maiden. Maybe they wouldn’t be in this predicament if that had happened.

“Miran,” the Maiden addressed him, pulling him out of his thoughts, “We need to talk. Follow me.”

He glanced at War Lord Den, who wouldn’t meet his eye, and slumped his shoulders as he made his way up the hill to where she had no doubtedly set up camp. This ‘talk’ would not be good. 

Unsurprisingly, his suspicions were confirmed when he saw a makeshift pavilion set up for her overlooking the battle below. She had been in complete control of this since she had arrived, and he cursed himself silently for thinking she wouldn’t show up when he sent the original distress call for reinforcements. 

“This is a disaster, Miran,” she started as she sat in a folding chair that had been set up in the pavilion, “We met up with Keeper Iranal on our way in; she said half your hunters are wounded and there are twenty dead. That is far too much.”

“You don’t need to tell me, Maiden. But we aren’t equipped for this, you know that.”

She picked up a cup sitting on a small table next to her and took a sip, “Are you equipped to take in apostate mages who ran from the circle in Tantervale?”

He shouldn’t be surprised she had found that out, but he was anyways. He wouldn’t let her use that against his clan, “They were children! What were we supposed to do?”

She frowned in irritation, “Send them to a clan that can handle templars. We have the resources to take on these small contingents with little loss. Your hunters are not trained to handle Chantry forces.”

“There was no time! The children only found us two months ago. We had planned to reach out to other clans, but the templars caught their scent before we had a chance,” he argued. Miran may have failed at a lot of things in this, but taking in the apostates was not one of them. 

“They must have means to track them,” she mused. She signaled for a runner near the pavilion, “War Lord Den is overseeing the battle. Tell him that he needs to go through every templar body to search for phylacteries.”

The runner brought his fist to his chest, bowed slightly, then took off with a sprint. 

Miran marvelled at the efficiency and had the smart sense to let her take over for him instead of trying to get back out into the fray. He sighed heavily, and sank to the ground in front of her chair as exhaustion began to sink in. The battle would surely be won. She had everything under control. He could afford it now. 

“Look Elain; I know you think we can’t handle ourselves, but this was not something we expected. We’ve taken in flat ear refugees before without the humans coming down on us like this.”

“I know, Miran,” she said, “And the Silures aren’t the only ones suffering from this war. Clan Unether’al dealt with hostile mages that escaped the purging in Kirkwall. Thank Mythal that you did not have to endure that.”

“So I heard,” he responded, shuddering at the stories of the demons taking over the bodies of those desperate souls, “What does Lavellan plan to do? You can’t keep coming to every Marcher clan’s rescue.”

“No, we can’t,” she agreed, her voice softer now, “The Diceni are noticing that our hunters are over-extended, and they are very interested in taking our northern hunting grounds.”

“Keeper Paeris is always reaching for things he can’t have,” he said to her, knowing full well the rivalry between the two siblings. He hoped the slight criticism would soften the blows she had in store for him, “But even the Diceni are bogged down with the templar-mage war. The humans have a way of making life harder for everyone.”

Her lips curved into a smile, “That they do.”

They spoke of inconsequential politics for a while, the spectre of battle hanging over them both. It was small talk to fill the time while Lavellan helped the Silures take back their grounds. They discuseed where the Arlathvhen would be held now that the Diceni were High Clan of the Free Marches, the movements of Clan Orovir, the fate of Clan Unether’al, whether or not High Council would be called to make plans for this shemlen war. It keep the tone light, but Miran’s anxiety was making his gut burn.

“So what now?” he asked her. He was afraid to know the answer, but he thought it best to get it out of the way. She took another drink from her cup, deeper this time, and swirled it in her hand thoughtfully.

“Now, we finally make the leap into a more permanent partnership between Lavellan and Silure. Your clan is in no position to defend themselves,” she answered sternly, “And unless you want to face extinction, you and Keeper Iranal should consider the terms very carefully.”

His throat was suddenly swollen and dry and he let out a hoarse cough. Without hesitating, the Maiden passed him her cup, and he drank the cool water she had inside. It soothed his throat, but the burning in his gut didn’t go away.

“We’ve gone over your terms before, Elain. The Council will not agree to them; you know this.”

“They have no choice in the matter now,” she argued, tapping her fingers impatiently on the armrests of her chair, “Clan Silure stands on the brink of destruction. Your hunters aren’t equipped for war, your reserves are destroyed, and your aravels are burning. If it’s not the templars, it will be raiders or Tal-Vashoth or smugglers or slavers that will wipe you out. We are offering a way for you to survive.”

“You’re offering a deal no better than the Diceni offered, and we won’t take it!” he raised his voice, “Clan Silure will live free or we will die free. We won’t pay tribute to Lavellan simply because the Maiden wants it.”

Her lips drew into a thin line and her brow creased in thought, “You’re angry over the loss you’ve endured in this attack. I only ask that you think on it today. I know how indecisive your Council is, so the matter will take some time. Use that time to reflect on what it more important; your pride or your existence.”

“Elain!” War Lord Den interrupted them as he approached the pavilion, covered in blood and smiling widely, “They’re all dead. What a good fight! Been a long time since I saw a fight like that. Nothing like taking on soldiers with actual training!”

“Glad we could accommodate you,” Miran smirked at him, but didn’t feel the good-natured jesting they had earlier. This ultimatum was weighing on him heavily.

“DId you find phylacteries?” she asked him.

Den plopped himself down on the ground next to her, reaching across her and grabbing a bottle of wine on her table. He took a deep drink and let out a sigh of satisfaction at the taste.

“Yeah. They’re destroyed. We also found something very interesting,” he pulled out a rolled piece of parchment that had been sealed in wax and handed it to her. She unrolled it and began to read.

“These are orders to cease all engagements. There’s going to be a meeting of some kind in Ferelden. They’re calling it a ‘Conclave’. It’s headed by the Divine herself.”

She let the parchment roll back up, “Interesting. We need to bring this up in Council. Deshanna will be very invested in finding out what happens at this ‘Conclave’.”

“An end to this war, perhaps?” Miran suggested. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Banal’ras approaching her small encampment.

“Who can say with humans?” she handed the parchment back to Den, and he slid it in his belt, “You should worry less about this meeting and more about what we talked about. Go tend to your hunters. They need to know that you are as part of this as Lavellan is.”

It was a dismissal, and he knew that there would be no further arguing. He had given her permission to hunt on the Silures grounds, and now, living without the stern eye of the Maiden overlooking them would be harder and harder. He left her small pavilion, giving his goodbyes and thanks, and walked back to the camp that had been nearly overrun just a few short hours ago. 

The hunters were celebrating and organizing what was left after the attack. Mounds of preserved food were stacked and protected, but it was only a fraction of what they had. Five large aravel were burned beyond saving, and two may be salvageable, if they had access to the materials. Clan Silure did not. 

Miran knew she was right, as much as he hated it. This was a death knoll. Harboring the apostates had been too big of a risk, and now they would lose what little autonomy they had. As the hunters chatted excitedly over the bravery and skill of the Shadow and the Lavellan hunters and the benevolence of the Maiden, he knew it was only a matter of time before Council agreed to her terms.

So the saying went in clans of the Free Marches: _Whatever the Maiden wants, she gets._

\---

 

“How was the battle?” Elain asked Revas as he returned to the camp. He had blood on him, but none of it was his own. She would not show her relief, but she felt it keenly.

“Quick. These templars are fighting blindly,” he dropped an amulet the knight-captain leading the group had been wearing on her lap,”They don’t know what to do without a leader to guide them. And I think they were low on lyrium. It’s why they were hacking through the Silure’s supplies; looking for their fix.”

“Barbarians,” Den muttered on the ground next to her. 

“It just proves that the Silures need to come into our fray. They’re an easy target for templars who don’t have the Chantry supply lines anymore.” She turned the blood-stained amulet over in her hands. It was the symbol of the Chantry, a sunburst. It looked as if it had been gilded, but the gold had been chiseled off and sold. All that was left was the cheap metal filling it. Shoddy craftsmanship for a barbaric order.

“I think their Council will be more open to it now,” Revas said, “Twig and I talked to their hunters after their fight. Thanks to a little persuasion, a lot of them think you’re single-handedly saving the Silures.”

“Good work,” she complimented him, “But that’s just their hunters. The clan is largely artisans. I’d have Vhannas reach out to them, but Miran and Iranal are still bitter over not getting you transferred back when I was on my trial in the mountains.”

He laughed, “I don’t blame them. I just killed four templars myself. They wouldn’t be in this mess if they had me.”

“I’m sure they have entirely different messes they would need help out of it they had you,” she smiled widely at him. 

The hour was getting late, and Elain stood up from her chair and stretched. She needed to return to her own clan to let them know the news of the battle. And the news of the Conclave. The first would be cause for celebration. The latter would cause much debate; one that she was eager to participate in.

“Take care of things here, Den. Revas and I will ride back ahead and let the Council know how it went. Make sure you have the our hunters camping with theirs. Get them used to the idea.”

“Of course,” he accepted her order, “Stay away from the main roads. Templars could’ve been waiting for backup. And make sure to tell your mother I send all of my love to her, Revas.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered as they turned and walked away from Den’s contagious laughter.

As they left the camp and the commotion of the aftermath of the battle, Elain inhaled the harvest air deeply. The smell of the burning aravels still lingered in the wind, but for the most part, it was clean and cool, and helped clear her mind. She had wanted to participate in the fighting herself; give the hunters a show. But Miran needed to be turned, and she didn’t trust Den to convince him. She hoped her ultimatum would be enough.

Once they were far past the bustle of the battle, far away from prying eyes and ears, it was safe to speak with Revas about the true state of things.

“How well are their hunters trained?” she asked him. 

“Better than I expected, worse than we need,” he replied, “We’ve gained a lot of battle-ready hunters, but Paeris still has an army compared to our militia. We can’t depend on the Silures to turn his eyes away from our territory.”

“He’s only doing it to scare me into giving up ground and losing face,” she complained, “Then he gets to sweep in and save Clan Lavellan from the inadequate Maiden with his army and his War Lord and his Hand of Vengeance.”

“Or maybe since he’s taken in so many displaced clans, he actually needs the extra territory to help them survive?”

She furrowed her brow and scolwed, “I can’t believe you're taking his side! You know him. It’s always about his stupid schemes and plans!”

“I’m not taking sides,” he shot back, “I’m just saying not everything is about you all the time, Elain.”

“Hmph,” she crossed her arms over each other and lifted her chin. She wouldn’t give him the dignity of an argument. She knew her brother better than anyone, and she knew what he was capable of.

They approached her waiting halla, and without warning, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the mount. She let out a surprised gasp, but once she was settled, she rolled her eyes at the dramatic gesture. He rested his forearms on her lap and set his chin on them.

“We’re going to be traveling for a couple of days back to our camp. All alone. I’d really like it if you weren’t mad at me for pointing out that Paeris isn’t out to get you all the time. It would make the trip much easier,” he looked up at her expectantly from her lap.

She wanted to stay cross, to hold a grudge. He was always trying to convince her Paeris’ interventions were not as big of a deal as she made them seem, and it infuriated her. To Revas, this was just a silly game between siblings, and he didn’t see the bigger picture. The future of the Clans in the Marches -- even all of Thedas -- was at stake. She truly did want to stay mad, but he was covered in the blood of the humans he killed on her behalf, and once again, she was reminded of the selflessness in which he served her.

“Fine,” she let out a deep sigh, “But one of us needs to take him seriously. He could undo all the work we’ve done.”

He lifted his head and grabbed the reins of the halla, guiding it towards the beaten forest path. “I doubt that. He has Threlen to contend with when it comes to making decisions for his clan. No one goes against you.”

“Now you’re just trying to flatter me.”

Looking over his shoulder, he flashed her his widest grin, “I did say we were going to be alone right? Just you and me? For the first time in weeks? It would be a waste if you were upset with me.”

She returned his smile, “Then by all means….flatter me.”

He stopped leading the halla and grabbed one of her hands.

“You already know you are the most beautiful..” he kissed her knuckles, “...intelligent..” he kissed her fingertips, “...ruthless…” he turned her hand over and kissed her palm, “...uncompromising woman alive. What more is there to say?”

Elain cupped his face with the hand he held, his fingers still clutching hers. 

“You could say ‘I love you’,” she said quietly and leaned down to press her mouth to his. She returned his kisses with a sweetness she only let him see, and he brushed his free hand through her hair in contentment.

They drew apart before they might be seen by some wandering hunter, and continued traveling the scarcely used paths in the forest that were covered in the fallen leaves of autumn. Despite the war and the unknown future it might bring, they were just happy to be going home. Together.


	2. Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Maiden returns from Clan Silure with news. Sar'een doesn't want to be left behind anymore.

_Long ago, in a time before the The People withered and died, a time of glory and beauty for Our Empire, The Lord of the Dark House decided He needed a guardian to help protect The Place of Secrets, for the Secrets of the world are sacred and must never be discovered. He reached out to His Kin, asking them to help Him create a creature that would hold onto Secrets and be loyal to The People, and in return, He would share those Secrets._

_Elgar’nan, the All Father, gave His Blessing, but refused. Mythal, the Womb of the World, also refused. Falon’din, He Who Watches, cannot create for the Twin Soul, and Sylaise, She of the Moth, was not interested. The Great Huntress does not create guardians, but rather, hunts them, and refused. This left June and the youngest of the Creators, Ghilan’nain, The Lady of the Path._

_Instead of a beast, June created an intricate trap, one with triggers and runes and imbued with His magic, woven into the stones by His animunculi. None seeking forbidden Secrets should find them with His trap. He showed this to Dirthamen, and The Lord of the Dark House was pleased._

_Ghilan’nain drew upon Her greatest skills, and made a beast like no other; the legs of the Great Spider, a robust body of a bronto, winged underarms like a bat, and a venomous mouth of a snake. It sped through Ghilan’nain’s domain, frightening all who dared look upon it. She showed this to Dirthamen, and the Lord of the Dark House was pleased._

_But the cost of Secrets is a high price. Only one could guard The Place of Secrets, and June and Ghilan’nain fought bitterly over whose Creation it would be. The Beyond shook and the earth cracked under their argument, and it woke the sleeping Fen’harel. The Trickster saw a chance to fool his kin and steal the Secrets for himself._

_“Why not test your Creation against the Lady of the Path’s?” The Dread Wolf asked June._

_And so They did. Dirthamen allowed June’s trap and Ghilan’nain’s beast to come to The Place of Secrets, and the beast tried to destroy the trap. It would be of no use, however. In his cunning, Fen’harel knew that the Place of Secrets would be no ordinary City, and laughed in delight when He saw the constructions fail under the great weight of the dark waters in which Dirthamen’s Secrets lie._

_The trap’s magic grew out of control and swallowed its mechanisms and Ghilan’nain’s beast alike. But from the dark waters, a new creature emerged. It was made of stone and storms and death, with the defense of June’s trap and the loyalty of Ghilan’nain’s beast._

_Dirthamen took this new creature and gave it the name of ‘Varterral’, and set it to guard the Place of Secrets. Fen’harel demanded the payment of His Secrets after his scheming created the Varterral. The Lord of the Dark House merely whispered the words in the Great Wolf’s ear, for His True Tongue was too loud for even His kin to bear:_

_“Swim past My guardian if you wish to seek My Secrets out.”_

“Sar’een!” Nellia complained, “This story is so boring!”

Sar’een was drawn out of her moment, and gave her friend a frown, “No it’s not. It’s about the first varterral.”

“When I asked you to tell me a good story, I was hoping for a love story,” Nellia pouted, twirling her foot in the air off the end of her cot.

Sar’een sat on the floor of her friend’s small yurt with a sandstone block in her hand, running it over the rough edges of her staff. It was a lazy autumn afternoon, most of the preparation for winter done, and the clan was merely waiting for their hunters to return in order to plan their next move. She was trying to spend her time entertaining herself and Nellia, but her stories were once again wasted on deaf ears.

She rolled her eyes at her friend’s lack of appreciation, “You always want love stories now. I thought after you got married, you’d be less of a romantic.”

Nellia rolled onto her back on her cot, sighing as she stared at the roof, “Now I’m even more romantic, I think. Arthwyn is so wonderful. Did you know he killed a buck for me the day of our bonding ceremony? And he wrote his own oaths to say on top of the traditional ones? He said--”

“‘Traditional oaths don’t give my love for you the weight of my heart.’ Yes, I know,” Sar’een interrupted her, “Everyone knows. You never stop talking about him.Sorry that some of us don’t share your enthusiasm.”

“You’re in a grouchy mood.”

“Of course I am! I’m trying to tell you a story and all you can think about is your stupid husband!” Sar’een lashed out. Nellia’s idle movements stilled, and her mouth formed a frown. She sat up and leaned over the side of the cot.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I miss him when he’s gone. This helps.”

Sar’een regretted her outburst immediately. It wasn’t her fault she was on edge, and it was cruel to take it out on her. The war the shemlen have been fighting had been weighing on her mind, among other things, and it seemed she had been more tense than she realized. She set her sandstone block down, along with her staff, and sat down onto the cot next to her friend.

“No, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “It was wrong of me to snap at you. I’m worried over the hunters and the mage-templar war and what it all means.”

“You mean you’re worried about Paeris trying to take advantage of us while our hunters are away again,” Nellia pointed out.

She didn’t want to admit it, but Nellia was right. Sar’een had sat in Council numerous times when Paeris and Warlord Threlen’s offers of alliance were brought up. She heard Warlord Den argue that the clan could protect itself, and most everyone agreeing with the sentiment. They were self sufficient and immensely proud of that. But with each passing season that this stupid war went on, the idea of a stronger force to protect the clan became more and more appealing. Den’s declarations were met with some resistance among the older artisans and hunters, and eventually, even active members. 

At first, Sar’een supported the prospect of allying with Clan Diceni. She was even excited about it. The years between her visits with Paeris were far too much, and she liked the idea of getting a chance to work closer with him. But she began to notice subtle changes in him. His letters became less and less frequent, and the ones that did come were woefully short. The standard salutations, a brief overview of how his family is doing, and a hope that she was doing well too. The distance between Paeris and Sar’een developed into something bigger than just the physical space. His life was foreign to her now. 

She still prattled on in her letters to him. Stories about clan life, about her projects, questions about his teachings that she was beginning to forget. He just never answered anymore. Paeris withdrew himself from her, so his need to reach out to Clan Lavellan seemed hollow, at best. She shuddered to think that there could be anything more malicious behind it. Sar’een wasn’t ready to let go of the memory of the Paeris she knew; her mentor, her teacher, her surrogate brother, her friend. The idea that he could be more insidious-- or even spiteful -- hurt her. 

And yet, she still knew that there was more to his offers than he let on.

“A little bit, yes,” she finally responded to Nellia, “He’s Diceni now. He has to look out for their best interests, first and foremost. And Elain has been very...’liberal’ with her idea of the boundaries of our hunting grounds to the north.” 

“He wouldn’t really try something though, would he? We’re his home clan. His family.”

She sighed, “We were his family. He’s made a new one now.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the heaviness of the situation hanging over them like a dark cloud. It was always hardest when their hunters were away. Hearth workers like Nellia had no options if something were to happen. She was trained in basic survival skills, as all Dalish are, but she hadn’t engaged in it since her youth like the protectors of the clan did. Sar’een could fight, but rarely got the chance. And Paeris was a powerful mage; even if she could work up the nerve to defend the clan against him, he would probably cut her down swiftly. It made her feel helpless and lost. Like a weak bird with broken wings. She didn’t like thinking about this.

“How about another story?” she asked Nellia brightly, “Something more upbeat this time.”

Nellia grinned widely at her and nodded. There was a sense of relief in her friend’s eyes, and she was all too happy to change the topic of conversation. There was enough to worry about; for the moment, they could just get lost in stories.

Sar’een began to tell a newer story, one about two keepers from different clans falling in love, but it was interrupted by a rustling at the entrance of her yurt. The wicker cover pulled back, and Deshanna peaked in. 

“There you are, da’len,” she said with exasperation, “I’ve been looking all over for you. The Maiden returned from Clan Silure and she’s requesting a meeting with Council.”

She furrowed her brow in concern, “Is it serious?”

“Everything is serious with Elain,” she said before dropping the wicker hanging, “Try to be there soon. Most everyone has gathered already.”

She nodded her affirmation and stood to make her way to the Council yurt. Nellia grabbed her by the wrist before she could leave.

“Can you please ask Elain about Arthwyn? Make sure he’s okay?” she pleaded with her. 

“Of course,” she patted her shoulder.

She pulled her hand free and exited into the camp proper. There was a sense of dread living in her, as if something very important would come out of the meeting; something that would change the way her clan lived. The templars, the mages, the Diceni, slavers looking for weak prey...any one of them could uproot her life. 

And yet, at the same time, she was very curious. Change was always hard, but it meant new challenges, new triumphs, and new stories to tell. Sar’een tilted her shoulders back and walked straight. She didn’t want to wait on the sidelines, helpless. 

She wanted to be part of the story.

\---

“Clan Silure would be a huge burden for us to take on right now,” Loremaster Kellen argued in front of Council, “Especially with a large portion of their reserves destroyed. We don’t have the resources that the Diceni have to absorb faltering clans.”

“It’s worth considering,” Deshanna mused, “Our herd has been expanding faster than our current herders can keep up with. The Silures have a good amount of experienced herders that could assist us.”

“We can also trade our excess halla to the Antivan clans for more healing implements; fighting the templars and the raiders taking advantage of the war has taken a toll on our hunters’ health,” Sohta responded.

“Agreed,” chimed in Hearth Matron Aricia, “We need to help our own hunters before we start taking care of another clan’s.” 

The Council was long and boring. Sar’een sat with her chin on her hand, fighting to stay awake while they argued over what to do with Clan Silure. They went back and forth, arguing for and against, while the neutral parties asked leading questions to pit the sides against each other. She knew what was going to happen. The whole clan did. It was just a matter of going through the motions to make a show. She just wished Den had been there to make it a bit more entertaining.

“The Silures are on the edge of extinction. If we do not intervene, they will not make it through the winter,” Elain said calmly. There was no need for her to get upset and yell loudly like Kellen. She didn’t need to. Council did not go against her will often.

“Elain, this would destroy us! We cannot afford to risk our own safety to save a clan who cannot care for themselves!” Kellen responded, raising his voice. He always raised his voice. Sar’een had watched him for years in Council now. She knew that if he was losing a fight, he would try to draw his opponent down to his level. It worked on several members, but not on Elain. He didn’t do it to upset her, though. 

Revas sat next to her during every integral Council meeting, fully armored, a part of the facade of authority Elain put on. And Kellen knew all too well how brash and short-tempered the Shadow was. He had often won arguments on Council, not by disrupting the Maiden, but by angering Revas enough for him to cause a scene. And today, Revas seemed particularly agitated. His foot bounced, his face was downturned in a frown, and his glare could burn a hole through a wall if he felt so inclined. Sar’een didn’t think he realized what Kellen was doing. 

“They can care for themselves, Kellen. The shemlen war has hurt the smaller clans much more than a prosperous clan --Andruil Enaste -- such as ours. We cannot expect them to recover on their own,” Elain dismissed him, leaning back onto the furs on the floor of the yurt. It seemed like a lazy movement, but Sar’een knew the language Elain spoke with her body was just as loud as the words that came from her mouth. She didn’t think his concerns were worth her time. 

“That’s easy for you to say,” Kellen said coldly,”While you open your arms to every wandering hunter, the ones who have made our clan prosperous -- the halla herders, the artisans, the hearth workers -- choke under the heavy burden you put on them. This isn’t about caring for a clan on the brink of extinction...it’s about bringing in more voices that support your transparent colonialism.”

“Watch your words,” the voice of Old Bida cut in, making everyone’s eyes turn to her, “The Maiden speaks for Andruil. A slight against her is a slight against the Goddess.” 

She sat in her usual spot at the head of the hearth next to Keeper Deshanna, covered in thick blankets and fur. It had been many years since she wore the Mantle of the Maiden, and the things she covered herself with seemed to try to compensate for its loss. It never quite looked right. The blankets and furs were large, but something about the Mantle itself seemed more daunting, more wild. When it had been on Bida, she was fearless huntress who even the humans heard stories of. Now that it sat so comfortable on Elain’s shoulders, Bida seemed just an old woman with a lost legacy, clinging to the remnants of what she was. Even so, she still was an imposing sight, with the shadows of the hearth hugging the deep crevices of her aged face. She was a ghost of an old order, still present, but easily forgotten.

Kellen looked visibly disturbed by her warning, his eyes darting around the crowded yurt to gauge the crowd’s reactions, but he continued on, “The Maiden is not infallible. My point still stands. She is using this Council and our people to further her own goals, not Andruil’s.”

Shocked whispers rang through the crowd, and Revas was on his feet in an instant. Kellen took steps backing away, but Sar’een knew it was also a show. Kellen was right, the Council knew it, Elain knew it, and he was merely trying to publicly embarrass her before a decision. 

Sar’een never really participated in Council meetings, but over the years, saw the machinations behind the politics. It was like a puzzle to be solved, or a piece of text that needed deciphered. Every move had a countermove and every rising star eventually fell. Nothing would come of this but a public defeat for Elain and Kellen looking strong against the Maiden and her beast of a Shadow. He probably had not expected to win over Bida today as well, but it would be an added bonus for a grubbing worm like him.

“Enough,” Keeper Deshanna said flatly, “Insults are below you, Loremaster. Perhaps you have spent too much time teaching the children if you feel the need to resort to such childish antics.”

She turned to Revas, “And there will be no need for anything to be proven, Banal’ras. Put your temper away. The situation with the Silures will not be decided today. Tension is too high and the matter is far too important for us to rush into a hasty decision.”

The rest of the Council mumbled their frustration, and Revas sat back down slowly, his eyes still on Kellen. Sar’een sighed under her breath. A fight would’ve been much more interesting.

“I do have one more order of business,” Elain spoke up, “It’s on a matter concerning this mage-templar war.”

The room quieted again. She stood up from off her place on the pile of furs on the ground, and strode down the center of the yurt, pausing before the hearth.

“There is going to be a meeting,” she started, “One that could change the outcome of this war. The leader of the Chantry will be holding a Conclave in the Frostbacks, at a site sacred to them. It will be a peace talks, and one that could mean an entirely new policy on mages instituted.”

“Who cares what the Chantry does?” asked Aricia, “They’ve done enough damage to our people. Let them have their squabbles.”

“What the Chantry does affects the entire world, impudent one, including our clan. Or did you forget why our hunters and Warlord Den are not in this meeting? Be quiet,” Old Bida chastised the Hearth Matron, and Aricia’s lips pursed tightly. Sar’een smiled behind her hand. 

Elain cleared her throat and continued on.

“I propose that we send spies to attend this meeting. We could find out information on what the Chantry plans on doing about these rogue elements that are attacking our people. We can also get a firsthand account if something that changes the playing field happens. No matter the outcome, we can better prepare ourselves against these attacks.”

A mission to enemy territory, gathering intel and secrets to help the People. It sounded very romantic to her. She wished should could be part of this mission. 

“Where did you get this information?” Deshanna asked.

“Off a dead templar. The missive had an official seal from the Divine herself.”

“It could be a trap,” their Keeper said, her chin resting on her hands thoughtfully, “but if the Chantry is truly that desperate…”

“They are,” Elain quickly responded.

Deshanna looked up at her, then over the rest of Council. Their faces were confused, anxious, intrigued; all matters of opinions and long debates that they would have were written as clear as day to Sar’een.

“We’ll send a small team of hunters,” Deshanna stated, “There is no reason to debate over this. Precious time has already been lost. If this Conclave is what I believe it to be, then the fate of more than just a few rogue elements hang in the balance.”

Baffled whispers spread through the yurt like wildfire. Deshanna had never made a final decision without Council input. It was unprecedented. Their Keeper was a neutral party at best, conservative in her opinions at worst. There must have been something truly troubling if she overrode any arguments that may have come up. It was something important that some may not have given thought to, perhaps. Or perhaps, she was still irritated from the outburst earlier. 

“I volunteer to lead the team at the Conclave,” Elain declared, her head held high. Sar’een wasn’t surprised. Elain always wanted to be at the front of these things. 

What did surprise her was the objection. From Revas, of all people. 

“Out of the question. We need you here leading the remaining hunters. These attacks won’t stop just because of a meeting.”

Elain faced him and she couldn’t help but hide her irritation, “Den can take care of that. I won’t be swayed, this is important.”

“You have no idea what is going to happen there! A small team isn’t good enough to prevent disaster if it goes wrong,” he shot back hotly.

“I won’t be swayed.”

He didn’t argue further, but his already palpable anger was only made worse. More chattering whispers came from it. Another rift between the Shadow and Maiden. Would she be looking for a new Banal’ras soon? She thought that Elain would know better than to fuel rumors like this. Or maybe it was planned. Who knew with Elain. She was always a step ahead, it seemed. This vital bit of information she provided after an impasse in the Silure issue was proof of that. 

There would be another few weeks of gossip about the Shadow growing restless, about a possible move, a thousand possibilities and none of it would come to pass. What a bore.

Sar’een realized she was irritated herself with all this gossip. With all this inactivity. Is this all her life was going to be? One meeting after another, watching the same motions, the same arguments, the same factions arguing over a chewed up bone? The thought made her shudder. At least Deshanna did something this time around. At least Elain makes herself the one who does things. What had she done but sit and listen to elders prattle on about inconsequential things?

She stood up suddenly, nearly knocking the lead artisan she sat next over. 

“I volunteer to go with!” she yelled. 

The entire room looked at her in disbelief, and she felt her cheeks burn hotly in embarrassment, but she was not deterred. She couldn’t sit back and just watch anymore.

“Da’len...” Deshanna started.

“No one is going to believe hunters are not some kind of spies! The mages won’t let them close, the templars won’t let them close, and at best, they could pass as mercenaries. But I am a mage! I can go places and see things they can’t!” she argued passionately.

“Sar’een…”

“If I can provide valuable information, it’s my duty to do this!” she almost couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. It was all happening so fast. What would her parents say?

“I know you want to help, but you haven’t had any combat training,” Deshanna told her.

“I have though! Paeris showed me. I just haven’t had a chance to practice very much. Besides, if this goes right, I won’t need it. I just need to get information from the mages so we can protect ourselves.”

Deshanna frowned, and many members of the Council shared nervous glances. Her heart sank. They didn’t want to let her go. They didn’t think she was old enough, experienced enough, mature enough...it made her angry. She worked hard, studied hard. And no one trusted her. She wouldn’t budge from this. This was her chance to prove she was more than the little girl who had followed Paeris around. 

“Let her come.”

Elain walked up next her her. Though she was taller than the Maiden, having Elain in her Mantle next to her made her feel bigger, more powerful. She nodded to Sar’een, and she mouthed _thank you_ to her in return.

“She is the First, Elain,” Deshanna implied that she was too inexperienced. 

“And a mage,” Elain fought back, “She’s right; she can help us gather information we otherwise couldn’t. I will see to her protection personally.”

Their Keeper gave a heavy sigh, but waved her hand in submission. She would get to go. Her heart raced and the burning in her cheeks from embarrassment turned to burning from joy. Impulsively, she grabbed onto Elain and hugged her. Elain gave a little chuckle, and patted her back, before letting go of her to hook her arm into Sar’een’s at the elbow.

“That’s enough for this evening. The Maiden can see to logistics of this mission. Everyone is dismissed,” Deshanna stood up and walked out of the yurt without another word, and Sar’een almost felt bad for a moment. She didn’t like to see Deshanna upset, even if she was excited. The feeling evaporated quickly when some of the lead hunters who did not attend the rescue mission for Clan Silure gathered around Elain to discuss business. 

She tried to pull away, but Elain still held onto her, pulling her back. The hunters spoke to Elain and to her, as if they were equals, and for a moment, Sar’een felt more important than she had in her entire life. She did not notice Revas angrily leaving the pavilion, or many other hunters and artisans doing the same.

Sar’een was making her own story now. And that’s all that mattered.


	3. Blast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Conclave is imminent, and the elves of Clan Lavellan try to find a way inside the Temple of Sacred Ashes

“We tried every group we could,” Twig complained, “None of them are going to hire us. We’ve got to face facts and try to come up with a different plan on how to get in.”

A light snow began to fall over the village of Haven, and the small group of Dalish elves -- disguised as mercenaries for hire -- spoke quietly to each other on the noisy path to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They had been working all morning trying to get hired on last minute as hired muscle for the mages or chantry officials, but so far, there hadn’t been any bites. Tal-Vashoth were more intimidating and the dwarves were carta smugglers who had a line in with the templars so they could get their lyrium fix while the Chantry sorted out the war. No one wanted to take on a group of untested elves with their faces full of tattoos.

Sar’een didn’t care. She was just happy to be in a new place, learning new things, meeting new people. The cook in the inn Elain stayed at liked her hair, so she gave her a hot loaf of bread. It was unlike any of the bread Sar’een had ever eaten; all her life, bread was either fara, which was soft and flat and spongy, or stale loaves the clan had traded for with the merchants in the Marcher cities. The bread she had now was warm, and she spread butter over the crust and watched with joy as it melted and soaked the moist, tender insides of the loaf. When she bit into it, it wasn’t tangy or tasteless. It was the greatest thing she had ever eaten. 

That was one of the many things she would have to tell stories about when they returned. The salty sea spray of the Waking Sea, the bustling docks of Gwaren full of brightly colored textiles, the Imperial Highway with its crumbling stones of an empire long fallen, and all the people she met on the way would make for a great tale to tell Nellia. As she chewed thoughtfully on the last bit of her bread and watched the soft flakes of snow flutter on the wind, she imagined all the intricate details of the mission so she could burn them into her mind.

“Or we could just leave and get the news on the way back. Like we should’ve done in the first place,” Revas said angrily. Sar’een rolled her eyes discreetly at his unhelpful suggestion.

“Rev,” Twig started, a weariness at arguing with him apparent in his tone.

“It was a stupid idea to come here, and it’s stupid for us to wait around. They are never going to let us in. We’ve got tattoos all over our faces and no one to vouch for us. No one thought this fucking plan through and now we’re just standing here, looking like idiots,” Revas ranted hotly, “This was a waste of our time. Fucking useless.”

He was in a mood today. Even more so than usual, which was a feat. She could tell he didn’t want to be here; didn’t like being around all these humans. He was the type who was more comfortable killing them and bragging about it than trying to fit in with them. She didn’t know why Elain brought him along in the first place. He’d fought against everything Elain said the entire mission -- almost kicking and screaming like a child -- and it was getting old. 

“Enough, Shem’assan,” Elain lifted her hand and silenced him coldly, “We’ve heard your opinion every day since we left the Free Marches. We all know what you want to do. Either come up with something that might actually help or hold your tongue. Do not test my patience any further.”

Revas glared at her, his face turning red, his teeth clenched tightly behind pursed lips. He spit on the ground in a show of defiance, and stormed away from the group. Elain watched with a frown on her face, but let him go. Sar’een began to worry about the rumors of a rift between the Maiden and her Shadow, but thought the better of it. She brought her hand to the jagged scar running down her mouth and touched it lightly with her fingertips. This is just how Revas was. Anyone who didn’t know that got burned. 

A hushed quiet settled over the group at the awkwardness of the situation, and Sorn cleared his throat loudly to break the silence.

“Well then,” he said, “Anyone else have a plan?”

The small group continued to discuss options that would at least get them close to the temple, so they could be among the first to hear news. It wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t have a lot of choices. Sar’een wasn’t asked to add her thoughts on the matter -- being a First and not a hunter trained in such things -- and she let her eyes wander over the crowd of people milling about. 

A group of men played with their mabari hound, throwing what looked like a large branch for the dog to fetch. It shot off with power and speed as they threw the toy, and it trotted back off-kilter as the size of the branch offset its’ balance. Some templars spoke idly about the the state of affairs, and an old farmer sat on an empty wine cask and attempted to sell some goods to passing travelers. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary, but still fun to watch none the less.

Something caught her eye though. A young elf girl, cloudn’t be more than seven or eight years old, stood by herself, just off the side of the road, rubbing her hands up her arms and darting her eyes back and forth among the crowd. She was alone, and obviously scared. Her heart tugged in her chest, and Sar’een stood up and made her way towards the girl. 

Elain and the others were so deep in conversation, they didn’t notice her leave. Unsurprising. Sar’een always seemed to be forgotten. Maybe it’s why she felt compelled to help the girl. She approached her, and smiled widely.

“Hello da’len,” she greeted her, squatting down to be on the same level as her, “You look lost. Is everything alright?”

The girl was nervous, and her lip quivered in fear. 

“I…I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she replied. 

Sar’een nodded, “That is very good advice to follow. But if you are lost, you have to talk to someone to find your way back where you belong.”

The girl creased her brow in worry.

“I’m Sar’een of Clan Lavellan,” she set her hand out for the girl. The girl looked up and down her nervously, but as last gave in, and shook it.

“There. Now I’m not a stranger,” Sar’een smiled, “What about you?”

“I’m Marci,” the girl responded quietly, “I’ve never met a Dalish elf before.”

“Oh, you haven’t?”

“No,” Marci’s voice began to grow stronger, “I’ve lived in the tower for longer than I can remember. Dalish elves don’t come visit the Circle.”

“You’re a mage?” Sar’een asked, surprised at a girl so young being at the Circle.

She nodded her head in agreement, “I am. Wanna see me do a trick?”

“I would love that, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. You might make the Templars nervous!” Sar’een said with mock severity. 

Marci giggled into her hand, and began to warm up to Sar’een, her deep brown eyes glittering with mirth.

“Enchanter Dessa said that Dalish elves have lots of stories. Do you have stories? Stories about magic?”

“Yes, we have lots of tales. I will make a deal with you: how about we go to look for Enchanter Dessa since I am sure she is missing you, and while we do, I can tell you my favorite magic story?” she bartered with the girl. 

Marci clapped her hands in delight and jumped in place. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the girl’s enthusiasm, and stood upright to grab her hand. No longer nervous, Marci took her hand without question and pointed towards the Temple.

“That’s where Enchanter Dessa is staying. Maybe she’s up there now?” the girl suggested. 

“Then that’s where we’ll start,” Sar’een affirmed, and gently pulled Marci as they weaved through the crowd towards the temple. 

Marci gripped her palm tightly and looked up at her expectantly. It felt wonderful to see someone so eager to hear her tell the old stories. She wondered if this is what Loremaster Kellen felt like when he taught all the children of the clan.

“Long ago, when the war for freedom was over and our people took The Long Walk to our new home in the Dales, there was a mage among them. He was not as powerful as other mages, and felt weaker and less important than his kin, so he sought the aid of the gods. His patron was the goddess Sylaise, She of the Moth, who soothes the terrors of night with Her warming embrace. “

“She sounds pretty,” Marci commented. 

“She is beautiful,” Sar’een explained, “But Her beauty is in Her gifts, not Her face. She gave the elves the Eternal Flame, and showed them how to use it to thrive. It’s by Her will that we may stoke our hearths and warm our bones in winters such as these.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes brightening at the explaination. They made their way up the steps to the temple, everyone around them too distracted to notice two elf mages walking hand in hand.

“The mage prayed to Sylaise, burning Her sacred herbs in his brazier every night, hoping She would answer his pleas. He asked for more power, more prestige, and the respect of his fellow mages in the newly-formed Dales. He did this every night for three years, never once doubting his Goddess would bless him.”

“One night, as he sprinkled the herbs in his hearth, the flames grew out of control and flared up in his humble home. The mage fell backwards, and when he looked up, a dark face appeared in the flames.It spoke in the old language, and told the mage the secrets of the fire, as its’ lips dripped lava and sulphur. The mage was scared, but listened intently at the lessons, knowing that Sylaise had sent him a messenger.”

“Why didn’t Sylaise do it herself?” Marci questioned. They approached the wide doors to the temple. There were many templars here, and it made Sar’een more nervous than she expected. 

“Because the gods of our people are locked away, unable to reach us directly. We are very blessed when they are able to send us signs like Sylaise did for the mage,” she told Marci absently as she looked around the expansive antechamber as they walked inside. 

It was larger than any temple she had ever seen; stone buttresses arced over the high ceilings, and stained glass windows spanned the walls. The sun glinted through them, leaving colorful scenes of Andraste painted across the marble floors. It reminded her of the illustrations in her books, and as her feet stepped on the beautiful images,she felt as though she was treading through an ancient text. It was impressive, and she felt she understood why these humans found their prophet’s story so inspiring. There was no corner in this place that didn’t shine with the radiance of Andraste’s glory.

“So what happened to the mage? Did he get good at magic?” Marni cut through her awe and brought her back to the present. 

She shook her head, “In a way. He was eager to test his new knowledge, but was untrained. He summoned a firestorm, like the figure in the fire told him, but he could not control it. He was trapped in his own home and could not escape. It burned to the ground, with him inside. His friends mourned the mage, and the leaders of the Dales mourned him as well, because the homeland was new, and every life was sacred. They honored his ashes, and buried them with an oak branch, as is the way.”

Marci stuck out her lower lip, “That isn’t a happy ending!”

“No. But not all stories are happy. This story is about how magic can be dangerous if you do not understand it, and that if you are not careful, the things you wish for most will only come to you after you are dead.”

The girl frowned and let go of Sar’een’s hand, “Are all Dalish elves as depressing as you?”

Sar’een merely grinned patted her shoulder.

“Marci!” a voice called out from the stairs at the end of the antechamber. It came from a tall human woman, her hair graying and her face frantic with worry. 

“Dessa!” the girl took off in a sprint towards the woman, and Sar’een followed after her. She watched as Marci ran into Dessa’s open arms, hugging her tightly. 

“You little demon, you had me so worried!” Dessa scolded the girl while she stroked her hair. She looked up at Sar’een with her eyes full of tears.

“You brought her back? Thank you,” she said, the tears welling over and falling down her cheeks, “I sent some templars out after her, but there’s so many people. I was afraid…”

“You’re welcome,” Sar’een replied, “It was no trouble.”

Marci chattered excitedly to her caretaker and Dessa in turn listened with gentle patience. Sar’een was satisfied with the reunion, and quietly slipped away from them, allowing them to have their moment.

Everyone here was so distracted, she was barely even noticed in the high halls of the antechamber. She smiled to herself knowing that for all Elain’s plotting and organization, she didn’t even think to just walk into the temple. She decided she would stay and look around. The news of the meeting would break here first, and she wanted to be able to go back to her friends and tell them everything from a frontline perspective. Maybe then they’d take her seriously. It would also be nice to be able to rub it in Revas’ face. 

Sar’een looked at the lovely paintings on the walls, and read each caption below with delight. They told of the hidden history of each one, a secret behind the strokes of paint on the rough canvas, and she soaked in every word. The paintings themselves were lovely as well, with vibrant colors hung by gilded frames that reminded her of the stained glass windows in the hall. She could feel the emotion they meant to evoke when she stared at the victorious prophet, her flowing blonde hair lit like the sun. There was even a depiction of Shartan, the elf who helped Andraste, and she looked on his face etched in oil and pigment, awed by how such simple strokes of the hand could capture the hope that the elf had represented for her people. 

This had been a good idea. She was glad she had volunteered for this mission. 

_“Someone! Help me!”_

Her tour was interrupted by a call for help. The cry came out from behind a nearby door, and she looked around to see if anyone noticed. The gathered crowd was blissfully unaware, their conversations and debates much louder than anything else. Another shout for aid came. She couldn’t wait for someone else to hear it, she had to do something herself.

Sar’een ran towards the cries, and pushed open the heavy door. 

\---

The blast rocked the entire mountain. Revas had been sitting on the branch of a tree, overlooking the frozen lake outside the village of Haven when it happened. He had been trying to get away from the loud crowds and louder anger boiling in his guts, but he immediately regretted it when the shockwave of the explosion knocked him off his perch into the soft snow beneath him. His vision was blurry and his ears rung from the sound of the explosion, but he couldn’t just lie on the ground. He stood and brushed himself off, and looked around to see what caused the blast. 

The temple was destroyed. Utterly annihilated. He saw rocks and debris falling from sky in the vicinity of the ruins, but it was nothing compared to what floated above it. The sky was torn open, and the greenish, swirling chaos of the Beyond was pushing through for all to see. Whatever that blast was, it ripped open the Veil. And his friends were there. Elain was there.

He took off in a sprint, as fast as his legs would take him, and pressed through the deep snow in a panic. There were more pieces of debris falling, and the smell of burnt flesh was carried by the bitter cold winds beating on his face. He still ran, unperturbed. It could not end like this. He couldn’t let this be it. 

There were screams coming from everywhere, shouts for help, and rumbles of what sounded like animals. It was hard to hear, his ears still ringing from the blast. He didn’t stop to find out what was going on, but kept running, veering back onto the path that led to the decimated temple. He would not be able to avoid the situation much longer, and it became all to clear when he saw his path obstructed by a small green rip in the Veil. It wasn’t the pooling vortex like the one above the temple, but there was a shambling beast edging it, making passage through without detection impossible. He had seen things like this before, but very rarely. They were demons, and they were not pleasant to deal with.

But Revas had no choice. 

His hand swiftly cocked his bow, an arrow aimed at the center of where the demon’s heart would be, if such a creature could have one. But with it’s long, spindly limbs and grotesque sunken eye sockets, he doubted anything capable of feeling lived in this shell. He knew very little about magic, never trusting it fully, but he knew enough to realize that this thing that mimicked this world was as mindless as any other beast. It was an imitation of life, and his arrow would end it, one way or another.

Revas released the shot and immediately loaded another, hitting on top of the first arrow within a heartbeat. The demon was alerted to his presence by the first, but all it would take is one shot undetected. He was always a quick shot; first to draw, first to be blooded. Now, he was driven by the need to find her, an all consuming thing, and the arrows left his bow more rapidly than they had his entire life. A third shot into the growing cavity in the demon’s chest, and a fourth hitting its’ head to stun it after it tried move towards him. The fifth ended it, and the creature dissipated into the green light that emanated from the Beyond. His way was clear, and he moved swiftly away from the tear before more of the demons could come through. 

The route to the temple ruins was pandemonium. Demons were everywhere, and soldiers fought them tooth and nail. Survivors of the blast tried desperately to escape, wailing like mourners as they covered their heads to protect them from the continuously falling debris. Revas moved past them, trying to find the bridge he left his friends at. He at last came upon it, but it was broken, and the surrounding area was inundated with dust and stones from the temple. Broken, bloodied limbs stuck out from underneath the heavy masonry, and he feared the worst. 

In his desperation, he began pulling the heavy stones away, uncovering whatever he could. If she was buried here, he would not stop until he found her. His hands were cut and bled from his frantic digging, and he found dead humans, crushed bones and glassy eyes, but no sign of Elain. He was barely aware of his lungs choking on the dust, his coughing, his vision blurring under the sweat pouring from him.

“Elain!” he yelled, over and over again, clawing at the remains. He didn’t realize he was crying, nor did he see the soldiers closing in on him.

They surrounded him, perhaps four of five in total, and screamed orders at him. He didn’t listen. They yanked him off the ground and he fought them, thrashing and punching and kicking until he was free, but the freedom was short lived. 

A stunning blow hit the back of his head, and he felt his face plant into the cold rubble, blackness washing over him.


	4. Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is reeling from the aftermath of the Conclave, and Sar'een races against time to fix it.

“Alright elf, unless you want to sit in here another week, you better be willing to talk this time,” the interrogator paced in front of Revas. 

It had been days since the blast, and he still did not know what happened. There were bits and pieces he picked up; the Beyond had been open, demons were spilling out, hundreds dead, no survivors at the Temple. It was all rumors spread by the remaining soldiers, led by the hands of the Divine. He didn’t know what any of that meant. He didn’t truly care. What was there to care about? These shemlen and their war had taken everything from him. Everything he cared about was buried under rubble. He had failed, but he wouldn’t let these people have anything else from him.

He glared at his captor and clenched his hands tightly onto the chains shackling them to his ankles behind his back. The cold, stone floor of the prison cell made his legs numb, and he was positive they had left him kneeling like this for hours beforehand for what he did to the last interrogator. They’re lucky he didn’t do worse for putting him in chains.

“I’m going to pull the gag off you now,” the human said, reaching for the leather strap that he and several of his fellow soldiers had fought to stuff into Revas’ mouth, “Try anything, and you’ll be sorry.”

The man yanked the leather strap down abruptly, pulling on Revas’ teeth as he did so. Once it was gone though, Revas stretched his stiff jaw, flexing it back and forth, loosening it up after hours and hours of being bound. He tasted blood in his mouth still from earlier interrogations, and ran his tongue over the deep split they had left on his lip. He looked up at the interrogator with malice.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” the man asked him in a mocking tone. Revas spit in his face. 

The crack of the fist against his jaw was loud and hard, sending a shooting, throbbing pain into his skull. The blow was more forceful than the last interrogation, and he was knocked down, fumbling face forward to the ground into the stagnant puddles of water that sat there. He tasted blood again, this time very fresh, copper and strong on his tongue. He tried to sit back up, but the chains made it impossible, and all he could manage was to prop his head up on his chin so his face wasn’t submerged in the vile water. 

His captor saw his movement and took advantage of the moment. He pressed his heel against the back of Revas head, forcing him towards the shallow depths. It wasn’t a matter of loosening him up; people have drowned in less water than what he faced now. He took a breath as soon as he realized what the interrogator was doing and held it as the booted foot put the entire weight of the man’s body against the base of his skull. The gritty liquid filled his nostrils and rubbed his lips and nose raw as the man ground his face into the stone floor. 

His lungs ached for air and he fought his captor violently. His body thrashed, straining against his chains, splashing the puddle in an effort to breath. This only spurred his captor on, and the man squatted and kneeled onto his back, forcing him into the ground even more. 

“You keep fighting me,” he said condescendingly, “And you’re just making it harder. We need answers, and you need to talk if you want to help yourself.”

He yanked Revas’ head up by his hair, and he coughed and spat out the filthy water out of his mouth, “If you would just tell us why you were at the Conclave instead of fighting, you could be sitting with your friends right now.”

Revas snorted but said nothing. If he was sitting with his friends now, he’d be suffocating underneath a mountain of stone and dust. It’s where he deserved to be, but he wouldn’t let his captor win so easily.

“Do you know how many people are dead because of you? Because of what you and your friends did?”

“What do I care about a few dead shems?” he replied, his voice hoarse and raw. It was the first thing he said since he’d been captured.

It apparently wasn’t what his captor wanted to hear. He slammed his face back into the ground, but instead of holding him in the stagnant puddle, he pulled him back up, jarring Revas’ neck, then slamming him back down again. Then, again. And again. The onslaught of blows made Revas feel light-headed. 

“You killed hundreds of people and that’s all you have to say for yourself?” the man shouted now as he slammed Revas’ head, “Son of a bitch!” Another slam. “Savage piece of filth!” Another. “My family was there!”

“Samuel!”

A second soldier entered the dank, damp little cell. Revas’ captor still held on tight to his head, out of breath and panting. He tried to see if he recognized the other soldier, but his vision started to blur from blood dripping down his forehead. 

“The other one talked and the one that walked out of the rift should be waking up soon. Seeker Cassandra wants us to stop trying to get the information until she can speak to the one with the mark on her hand,” the other soldier explained.

Samuel’s grip tightened on Revas’ hair, but then slowly, it loosened back up. He dropped his head and stood up. 

“Fine,” Samuel affirmed, “You handle him then. I don’t want to see his face.”

The other soldier nodded, and Revas’ former captor walked out of the cell. Revas would have laughed, but his head was spinning, and he was sure any more provocation would lead to more injuries. He had to be at least semi-coherent now so he could get details.

“C’mon,” the soldier leaned over and pulled Revas up by the arms, “The Seeker wants all the cells cleared out for when the marked one wakes up.”

He loosed the chains on him slightly so he could walk, and led Revas down a short, dark corridor, lit only by old torches.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked his new captor.

“Up into the Chantry. The Left Hand made a deal with one of your co-conspirators. Don’t know why. You should all be hung for what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” the walking was making Revas dizzy. He hadn’t eaten since the incident, and the hot blood from the fresh wound still dripped down his face. 

“Shut up,” the soldier said as he shoved Revas forward. He stumbled a bit, but caught his balance before falling on the stone stairs they now climbed.

The Chantry hall was fairly large for a such a small village. Clerics in their ridiculous outfits ran to and fro, and soldiers milled about, waiting for something. He guessed that something had to do with whoever this “Seeker” was. His captor pulled him across the hall, leading him towards a dim wall full of small rooms, it appeared. He saw more clerics go in and out of them, carrying blankets and bedding, fumbling with the heavy fabrics as they tried to rush to their destination. 

They approached the last room, it’s door shut and guarded by two standing soldiers and a woman. Revas’ captor saluted the woman, and she looked him over.

“Loosen his chains so he can move, but don’t unshackle him. We came to a compromise but he’s still capable of fighting back,” the soldier moved to follow her command, “I don’t want anymore agents hurt. Keep him in there until Seeker Cassandra is done interrogating the other prisoner.”

The soldier affirmed her commands with a nod, and the woman walked away back towards the prison cells where Revas had just come from. 

“Alright elf. You heard her. No funny business. And don’t get too comfortable.” 

The soldier shoved him inside the room and slammed the door behind him. 

“Revas!”

Her voice made his heart stop. He had thought better of hoping; knew it was useless. Death was his punishment for abandoning her, for leaving her in this abhorrent human world. There had been no passing thoughts of rescue, no idle fantasies of there being a chance she survived. The cold, emptiness of his cell was a prison that he had been put in, but the cold, emptiness in his heart over the loss of her has been a prison of his own making. He had been ready to hang for that alone.

But she had been sitting on a worn bed in the corner of the room, and when she saw him, she jumped off and ran. Her body slammed into his when she wrapped her arms around him in embrace, all pretenses gone. It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t a phantom, it was real, and she was warm and light and everything. Her hair was tangled, her eyes tired and weary, her hands trembling as she brought them to his face, and tears poured down her own with abandon. 

“Peach,” he said with awe. Elain had never looked so beautiful.

“I thought you were dead,” she cried, kissing his bloodied lips, “I thought I lost you!”

His hands were still behind his back, and he strained hard against his bindings, wanting to touch her, stroke her hair, assure her and himself that they were both here and this was real. Carefully, trying not to interrupt her precious mouth, he contorted his body to fit one leg through the gap in his chains; then, the other. The iron cuffs clanged together noisily, but he couldn’t hear it over his heart beating in his ears, and with some maneuvering, he was able to pull his shackled hands to the front of him. 

They flew to her face, and he kissed her back fervently, as if she would disappear if he didn’t. His thumbs stroked her cheeks, remembering every curve, and she sighed at his touch. They stood there in the dimly-lit room, a flickering candle the only light, quieting the heavy thoughts of loss that had hung over them since the Conclave. He didn’t want to let her go in the moment, fearful that she may disappear like an illusion, and he would be back on the ice-cold stone floor. 

After what seemed like forever, Elain broke their kiss and dropped her hands from his face. She led him to the little bed she had been sitting on and pressed for him to do the same. He obeyed, too tired and relieved to argue with her, but he realized her moment of reassurance was over. There would be no more frantic need for his breath against her skin, no whispered joy over seeing him alive. She would become the Maiden again, and tears of relief were a sign of weakness; the Maiden of the Hunt couldn’t afford to be weak, she would say. He couldn’t bring himself to care in the moment. She was alive, flaws and all. That’s all that mattered.

She tore a piece of her cotton undershirt and dipped it in a bowl that was on a small table near the bed. After wringing the cloth out tightly, she brought it gently to his face to clean him. 

“What did they do to you?” she asked him quietly as she dabbed as the now burning gash on his forehead. 

“Tried to get me to talk about the explosion. They think we did it,” he winced as she pressed against the tender skin, “I wouldn’t give in though. Took four of them to hold me down to get the chains on me.”

She dipped the cloth back into the bowl, kneading it to clean the blood and grit off.

“Oh Revas,” she sighed, “You should’ve just told them what you knew. We have nothing to hide.”

“They’d just use my words to frame us anyways. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.”

“You just made it harder for yourself,” she brought the cloth to his nose and mouth now, cleaning all the caked on grime.

“Not without making hard for the shems first,” he said, watching her eyes roam over his face intently, “Where are the others?”

“Sorn and Twig are in the infirmary. Sorn’s leg is bad; he probably won’t hunt again. Twig had a nasty head wound, but he’ll recover. Bran…” she paused, her lips going tight, “Bran didn’t make it. When they told me there was a dead hunter, I thought it was you. But they wouldn’t tell me anything else. It was so maddening.”

“You’re not injured,” he noticed, “You weren’t with them?”

“Sar’een disappeared shortly after you stormed off. The hunters went to search for her, and I went back to the inn to talk to you. But you weren’t there. I was going to head back to the group, but the blast happened. The Chantry found me running towards the temple and arrested me.”

“Same with me. But how did you end up in here while I spent my time in a cell block?”

The concern that had been sitting on her face -- her crinkled brow, her parted lips, her eyes still glistening with tears -- left her immediately. The stone mask she wore returned, and she pulled back the cloth and set it in the bowl. 

“I gave their Left Hand information. The amount of hunters I brought, our purpose for being here, our whereabouts the day of the blast.”

“You…” he shook his head in disbelief, “You just told them that? What’s wrong with you!”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she raised her voice to meet his, “Sorn and Twig were hurt, you and Bran and Sar’een were all missing. I needed to find you. So I made a deal. If I told them everything they needed, and they were able to confirm it, they would aid me in finding my hunters.”

“But they already knew! I’ve been in a fucking dungeon for days!”

She sat down on the bed next to him, her shoulder pressing against his, “I’m sorry, Revas. I was desperate. You were right about this; we should never have come.”

He sighed deeply, knowing what it took for her to admit his complaints had been true. It would be too easy to rub it in, to make her feel the full extent of her mistake, but he wasn’t cruel. They had lost too much, and making her feel guilty wouldn’t change that. 

“Did you at least find out what happened with the explosion?” he asked after a minute.

“No one knows the cause. All they know is that someone walked out of the Fade afterwards,” she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Someone? Like who?” his curiosity got the better of him.

“Sar’een.”

\---

It had been her fault. That’s the story she had been told, and for some reason, she believed it. How else had she woken up with this mark on her hand? Why else did she not remember anything other than a mass of jumbled thoughts? Perhaps if she had stayed with the hunters, not helped Marci....

Is Marci alright? she had asked frantically when the Seeker told her everyone at the Conclave was dead. Her next thoughts rushed to her friends but the Seeker did not allow any further questions. Sar’een was the one on trial here, and this was a trial by fire now.The Seeker had dragged her out of the prison, released her chains, and expected her to help fix this.

The little girl’s large, liquid eyes haunted her as she saw what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There were no longer towering stained glass windows casting colorful stories on the marbled floor. No extravagant paintings depicting the life of the prophet Andraste. No people milling about, waiting with an eager hopefulness that this war would end. 

Not even ashes remained. 

It was a crater; earth scorched so deeply, nothing could be built on it again. Nothing should be built on it. It was a tomb now for all those poor souls who wanted peace. Including Marci. The thought turned her stomach, and as she and the Seeker’s little group walked through the ruins, her own eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t remember anything and she was frightened. The demons spilling out of the rifts, the mark on her hand that mysteriously was the key to closing them, and the amnesia all at once was too much to take. She wished her mother and father were there to comfort her. She wished Elain was there to help her see this through. 

And as the massive pride demon manifested out of the original rift at the center of the burnt ruins, she wished Paeris was there to protect her. 

_“Again Sar’een!” he yelled at her. She trembled with weakness after expelling such a large spell, but she did not want to anger him. He was the First, after all, and she needed to learn. Her hands pulled on the blanket of ambient energy that she was able to constantly feel, as all mages do, and as it molded to her hands, she pushed it outward with a heavy grunt. The force didn’t move Paeris, but this time, she saw the leaves in the trees of the empty grove tremble. It was more than the last attempt, but it had drained her._

_They had been practicing for hours in the grove, secluded from the clan and all other things but the Wild. Andruil did not mind the use of magic in her domain, but as with all things in magic, it must be strictly controlled. Paeris watched her impassively as she cast the same spell over and over again, correcting her form and pushing her limits. He was always so strict, so stern._

_Sometimes Sar’een wished she did not have magic. When her family moved to Clan Lavellan, all she wanted was to make new friends to play with and learn to make pretty clothes like her mother. For a few months, she enjoyed it. Some of the older children, like Revas and Sorn, were mean to her, but it was fleeting, as things are with children. She ran with freedom through the plains and forests, discovering new things every day. But then, her magic manifested. It came in nightmares and blankets frozen to her body when she woke._

_Paeris was tasked with training her, and she was terrified of him. He had the same coldness Master Vhannas had that scared her own father so, and when he took her under his wing, she wished that life could go back to what it was._

_“Again,” he commanded, unimpressed with the little progress she made, “The Veil is thin here. Use that to your advantage; remember your spiritual training and apply it to your force.”_

_Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of trying this again, her limbs already feeling as heavy as lead. But she had to obey her hahren, and she took a deep, meditative breath to calm herself. She made a conscious effort to touch against the Veil, to feel it against her skin. It was like static electric, jumping and sparking with a crackling subtlety. Here, in the grove, it felt like tiny butterfly wings fluttering against her skin, soft but palpable._

_She attempted to draw deeper on that energy, grasping it with invisible hands of control, cupping those phantom butterflies. It seemed to work, and she felt something growing around her, like an arc of electricity crackling in the air. It was sharp and ozone, but also invigorating, as if life was spreading from the tips of her ears to her fingers. With the power accumulating, it began to become unstable. It was too strong for Sar’een to hold onto, and though she could not see it, she felt it slipping away from her, spreading out from her center and spilling into the grove._

_“Hold onto it!” Paeris shouted, his own hands coming up to prevent the loss of more magic, “Concentrate!”_

_She tried. Oh, how she had tried that day. Her teeth chattered and her knees shook and the overwhelming sense of drowning pressed on her, but she still couldn’t hold on. The fluttering of butterfly wings became the stinging of wasps, pricking her and causing her pain. She collapsed, losing the spell, and the burst of magic filled the area, setting the nearby redwood trees alight with its luminescence. It was beautiful, but her shame wouldn’t allow her to appreciate it._

_“Again!”_

_The tears swelling in her eyes spilled over, “Please Paeris, I’m tired.”_

_“And you are also far behind where I was at your age. Again.”_

_His tone brooked no argument, and with a whimper, she brought her hands up again. Her legs violently shook, and she was scared of what pushing again would do to her. But the pull of the magic in the grove shifted violently, and her shaking legs now gave out under her as the ground itself trembled._

_Expansive roots began to uplift themselves from the ground, reaching and grabbing for solid footing. The trees themselves began to move, ambling and roaring their displeasure with the magical disruption. Sar’een was young, but she knew what a strong emotional response meant in a place where the Veil was thin._

_Sylvans._

_The demon-infested trees came to life, their sharp branches grabbing towards Sar’een. She screamed in fear and tried to run, but her legs were weak, and she tripped over herself. With a great sweep, the closest sylvan scoped her up from the ground, tightly squeezing her in its’ grasp._

_“Sar’een!” she heard Paeris yell, and the crack of lightning that hit the sylvan took it by surprise. It loosened its’ grip slightly, enough for her to catch her breath. She tried to cast something as well, anything to make it let her go, but she was far too weak from exerting herself. Another crack of lightning hit the sylvan, but it arced into her as well, making her scream in pain from the burning._

_The sylvan dropped her at the attack, and as she hit the ground with a thump, she could see Paeris fighting off the creatures. There were three that she could see, and too much for one mage to take. She tried to stand to help, but it was no use. All it did was attract the attention of another one of the beasts, and with a stunning force, it stepped on her with its gnarled roots, choking her in dirt and earth._

_“Paeris! Help!” she had cried out, but her vision was going dark. She saw lights and heard the rumbling of plummeting stones, and before she lost her consciousness, the glow of fire -- bright, life-giving fire -- engulf the small grove._

_Sar’een was told it was several days before she woke again. She did not remember. For weeks after the attack, she lived in a daze. There were the healing hands of the Keeper on her forehead and the dark, reaching roots in her nightmares. She slept nestled against her mother’s chest, always afraid._

_Shortly after, she lost all her hair. It fell out in large clumps, scattered like trinkets around her parent’s quiet yurt. Her mother cried for her and her father talked about going back to their old clan, far away from Master Vhannas’ son. The talks led nowhere and her hair grew back eventually. When it did, the dark, thick waves were gone, and replaced by thin, straight strands of gray. Her mother cried more._

_It was three months after the incident before Paeris visited her. She was worried he would make her go train again, and hid under the blankets of her cot. He merely sat on the edge, pulling the covering down over her face._

_“Do you know the story of the dove and the king?” he asked her. She shook her head timidly._

_“Long ago, in the time of Our Empire, a great king ruled the lands. His armies were grand, his subjects loyal, and his sons strong. He had nothing to want for, but the king was a miserable man. He saw no beauty in the world, and longed for something to make him feel alive.”_

_She had widened her eyes as he told the story, still fearful, but intensely interested._

_“One morning, as the king sat in his chambers, contemplating deeply, when he heard a sweet cooing coming from his windowsill. On it sat a tiny gray dove, singing it’s song of love, looking for its partner. The king sat at his window and listening to the gentle song for hours, hoping the bird would find what it was looking for. Eventually he went to work administering his kingdom, but he wondered about the dove.”_

_“The next day, the dove was back and signing again. This time, the king sang along, cooing in tune with the bird’s melody. Soon, the bird returned everyday to sing with the king, and for the first time in his life, he was happy. The dove could sense this, and went to carry the message to her mistress, Ghilan’nain, the Lady of the Path. So pleased was the Lady with the king, she sent a whole flock of doves to him, and every morning, a chorus of their coos filled the kingdom. The king lived in peace and happiness knowing that everyday there would be a song in his domain. This is how the Dalish know that even in the most important duties, we must take time to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. Did you enjoy that tale?”_

_She nodded her head vigorously, “Can you tell me again?”_

_And so he did. Paeris came every day and told her of the dove, and then onto more tales. She learned of heroes and legends of her people, villains and monsters. He taught her the Old Language, and read from the Old Manuscripts, going over his favorite parts over and over again as surely as he went over her favorite parts. He was patient and calm, a far cry from the man who pushed her so hard._

_A year later, Sar’een asked to restart her training, and Paeris agreed. This time, he was calm and collected, letting her test her own limits instead of thrusting them upon her. Her fear dissipated and was replaced by respect, and eventually love. He watched over her, helped her learn, taught her things that made her heart skip._

_“I am sorry for what I did to you, Sar’een” he told her one day as they practiced healing spells, “I was trying to prove something, and it turned me into something I hate. I let it affect you. It was wrong of me.”_

_“What were you trying to prove, hahren?” she inquired._

_“Nothing that you should concern yourself with. Just know that I will always be here for you, and I will never make you do anything that could hurt you again.”_

_“I forgive you Paeris,” she told him with a grin, her youth and innocence making her unable to understand the heaviness of his guilt._

_“Thank you, Little Dove. I don’t deserve it, but I will cherish it nonetheless.”_

The Pride Demon reminded Sar’een of the sylvans in that haunted grove. Large and menacing, overtaking her with the ease of an ancient entity walking across the ages. She threw ice magic at it, slamming her staff on the ground and letting it creep up the demon’s powerful legs. It was of no use. It’s armor was too strong.

The demon made its way towards her, hurtling great balls of electrical magic, making her hair and her nerves stand on end. The Seeker pushed her out of the way and took the blow against her shield, then dispelled the magic on her own. Sar’een surmised she must be some sort of Templar. A special one, perhaps. She had no time to ask, as the demon was advancing towards the rag tag group with purpose.

“You must try to seal the rift!” the apostate mage shouted at her, pointing his staff at the green tear hanging above them, “We’ll distract it!”

“Easy for you to say, Chuckles,” the dwarf, Varric, said as he dashed away from the path of the demon, “Not all of us have magical barrier to protect us!”

The elf, Solas, cast a barrier over the group, and pushed Sar’een towards the rift, “Go!”

She heard the demon roar behind her as she ran towards the source of all this turmoil. The mark on her hand arced and flared sharply, nearly crippling her in pain, but she pushed on. She would not fail.

Her hand raised, she pushed against it against the rift, watching as the painful magic stored there crawled out of her palm into the hole in the Fade. The pressure mounted, the magic growing more and more concentrated, until at last, the rift sealed with surge of disruptive power. The blast of it knocked her backwards, and she saw a great glow of green light flow towards the Breach. It entered it with a burst of luminescence, and the sheer force of it blinded her.

The pain was unbearable, but she had finished it. Depsite it all, she prevailed. Darkness rushed over her once again, and she only hoped that she had made Paeris proud.


	5. Responsible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een is reunited with Elain and the rest of the members of their clan, but it is short-lived.

Sar’een wasn’t sure why she agreed to help this Inquisition seal the Breach. It had all happened so quickly. One minute she was closing the original rift, scared out of her mind, wishing someone would protect her from what was happening, and the next, an entire human organization was calling her a religious figure. 

The Herald of Andraste. 

She barely even knew who Andraste was. Her keeper training didn’t really cover the ins and outs of human religion, even if Paeris did tell her it was important to know as much as possible about all subjects, not just elven. How could she be a Herald to anything that she didn’t know about? It was a good question for her to ask herself, but when it finally popped into her head, she had already told Cassandra she would join up. Maybe that chantry bureaucrat who had been yelling the entire time had made her irritated enough to step in. Maybe she felt like she owed it to them. She was there at the explosion, after all.

It was mostly because of Marci, though. She knew it, but she had a hard time accepting it. Marci and all the other innocent people there who were just looking for peace. They had found it unintentionally in their death.The smell of the incinerated bodies still blew on the wind into Haven, filling the quiet paths with the atmosphere of decay. The people of the Inquisition bustled to and fro, seemingly unconcerned with the rancid air, but it made her sick when she stepped outside. It was a phantom that struck her in the most innocuous moments. 

In spite of the visions they saw at the original rift where the Fade bled through, Sar’een still felt responsible for it all. As if she could have done something differently, saving everyone from the devastating destruction that haunted this place now. She was trained to be a Keeper, a person who protected their people, no matter the cost. The preservation of the clan above all things, Deshanna would say. But as she watched the villagers of Haven go about their daily business from her perch at the foot of a mabari statue, she couldn’t help but see that these people weren’t her clan. 

“Feeling okay, Snowflake?” 

She was jolted out of her thoughts by Varric, who stood at the edge of the stairs leading into the village, looking up at her. 

“I’m fine; just doing some thinking,” she responded absently.

“About anything in particular? Like maybe a big hole in the sky?” he asked.

“A bit,” she responded, “Wait. Why did you call me Snowflake?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “A habit. Nicknames give people character, a little pizazz. Plus, it’s less of a mouthful than ‘Herald of Andraste’.”

She giggled, “Yes, I suppose so. It works too, since we Dalish can be very superstitious about our names.”

Varric raised his eyebrow, “Oh really? Daisy never mentioned that to me.”

“You mean Merrill? She probably wouldn’t. Clan Sabrae is a southern clan. They didn’t come to the Free Marches until the Blight in Ferelden and the name thing is purely northern. It has to do with a purge that happened a couple of generations ago on the borders of Tevinter.”

“That sounds like a story,” Varric pressed her.

She nodded vigorously,”Oh it is! There were slavers preying on clans on the Silent Plains and the Basin of the Hundred Pillars, so Clans Diceni, Sidris, Abernath, and Uthener’al forged an alliance to drive them out. They ran out every slaver along the border of Tevinter for five years, which is unprecedented for the Dalish. Usually, we try not to linger with other clans too long, since it draws a lot of attention. The Great Alliance spread by word of mouth to both the Dalish and humans. More clans joined in on the effort, until they were nearly five thousand strong. This, of course, made the humans very nervous! A few hundred elves are easy to deal with. A few thousand is another story entirely.”

“Eventually, the clans got a little too pompous in their alliance, and started taking up land inside the Imperium’s borders. This was too close to home for the Magisterium’s liking, so they sent double agents; slaves that they marked with vallaslin to infiltrate The Great Alliance. They brought back information to the Magisterium; far too much information. Like the names of every line of elves that descended from magic. When the Imperium finally sent a full force to dismantle The Great Alliance, the names of the elves were put to use, and nearly one hundred magic inclined elves were captured and brought back to Tevinter for insidious purposes. The Great Alliance fell apart, and Clan Abernath was completely purged, only a dozen or so members left alive. Now, only the Diceni are brave enough to venture close to the borders of Tevinter with weapons on their backs.”

“The Dalish learned that our names and our ancestry are a threat to us, used by those who think us nothing more than beasts. So when you meet a Dalish elf who uses only their clan name, you know they are from the north, and still live in fear of the far-reaching hand of the Magisterium.”

“Well...shit,” Varric said slowly, “That is a story. So I’m guessing your name isn’t actually ‘Lavellan’?”

She shook her head, “No, that’s the name of my clan. But I like Snowflake!” 

He laughed, “Good. I really don’t know a lot about that elf stuff, so better keep it simple. Snowflake, it is.”

Sar’een grinned at the dwarf widely, and forgot for a moment about her thoughts of death and destruction. She liked him; it was nice to find something familiar in one of the people stuck in the middle of this like she was. It made her feel less alone.

“Uh, don’t look now, but it looks like the Seeker is….seeking you,” Varric directed his chin towards Cassandra standing at the top of the stairs. Sar’een sighed and climbed down from her perch.

“Better not keep her waiting,” she said as she left her new friend. 

“Smart thinking,” he replied as she ascended the steps to meet her former jailor. 

If Varric was friendly and light, Cassandra was familiar and heavy. The air of duty that surrounded the Seeker reminded her of many of the people back home. There was a seriousness in her demeanor that made Sar’een feel like a child in her presence. It wasn’t a good feeling.

“Herald,” Cassandra started as Sar’een approached her, “The members of your clan that attended the Conclave are demanding to see you. Leliana suggested keeping them away until you were settled, but they are insistent.”

“My clan members? You...you’re still keeping them here?” Sar’een puzzled. She somehow expected that they had all left without her, their job done. 

“Yes,” Cassandra began to walk towards the little room they had given her. She followed close behind, “Two of them were severely injured in the blast. One had died. They wanted to stay to recover his body. One of them also fed us information on your while you were unconscious. Leliana tried extracting as much as she could so we could confirm your intentions.”

“She didn’t trust me?”

“I saw you seal the Breach. I saw you try to help the Divine in the vision we saw. That is enough for me,” the seeker said as the paused in front of the door of the little room, “Leliana doesn’t trust things that she sees for herself anymore. Reports from various sources, eyewitness accounts, and intel from spies is what helps her decide.”

“But why wait so long to let them see me?” Sar’een was still confused.

“Truthfully? They were forgotten in the chaos. The Inquisition took priority and making sure you were on board. I apologize for the oversight.”

Cassandra opened the door to the room and Sar’een looked inside to see four grim-looking elves ambling about nervously. It didn’t escape her notice that Bran wasn’t among them. She stepped in, and the door shut firmly behind her. 

Elain looked up from her seat on the bed, and her eyes lit up when she saw her. 

“Sar’een!” she shot across the room like a scared halla and hugged her, stroking her hair gently. Tears stung Sar’een’s eyes when her arms closed around her, and she was embarrassed at how emotional she was seeing her friend again. 

“Elain, I’m so happy you’re alive,” she nearly sobbed but fought to keep her composure. Elain pulled back and looked at her with concern.

“Did they hurt you? Are you alright?” she asked, “I should never have lost track of you. I should never…”

“Shhh, Elain,” Twig broke in from his place next to the wall, “The bird’s okay. Now we can finally leave this shithole.”

Elain took a deep breath to control herself and dropped her arms to her waist, “Right. We have to get out of here before this Inquisition changes their mind about us being responsible.”

“We can sneak out this side window and scale the fence. We’ll be in the mountain passes before they know we’re gone,” Revas commented. Unsurprisingly, he seemed to be angry. 

“Sorn’s in no condition for that, Revas,” Elain snapped at him, “We’ve already went over this.”

“What choice do we have? They aren’t going to just let us walk out of here!” he rose his voice in argument. 

“We will think of something. I won’t lose anyone else!” she yelled right back at him.

“Oh, you mean like just telling the shemlen what we’re doing so they’ll be nice and throw us a bone? You already tried that and we were locked up for a week! They aren’t your allies! And they won’t bring Bran back!” Revas was shouting now, and it was a sign the fight had started before she walked into the room and was far from over. 

The atmosphere around them suddenly changed, and Sar’een was tempted to go back out into the rancid air and the unfamiliar faces just to avoid it. It was just so like them to make decisions on behalf of her and everyone else, without getting input from the people they were affecting. She looked over towards Sorn sitting with his leg propped up on the bed, and when he rolled his eyes at her in solidarity, she knew she had to say something as their so-called leader fought with her Shadow over nothing. 

“Will you two stop it?” she said loudly. Sar’een did not like to raise her voice, but they left her no choice, “I’ll get you passage to Gwaren and you can take a ship from there. Ambassador Montilyet can coordinate it. So there’s no need to fight anymore.”

Elain and Revas looked at her, their faces a mixture of surprise and confusion, mouths agape and eyes wide. 

“You can do that?” Twig asked.

“Yes. I’m an agent of the Inquisition now. There are some perks to having this mark,” she looked down on the glowing green magic on her hand, “But it also means I have to see this through.”

“You’re not an agent of anything, Sar’een. We’re going to take you home and have Deshanna fix whatever that mark is,” Elain said, pointing at her hand. 

“Elain…” Twig said quietly.

“No! I am not leaving her here! Not by herself,” Elain argued frantically, “I promised I would keep her safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sar’een tried to calm her, “But they need me. I’m the only one who can fix this.”

“You can’t be alone with all these humans. I’ll stay with you,” she stated. 

“You can’t. You need to get back to the clan to rally the hunters. The Inquisition may believe I didn’t cause this, but I can’t say that other humans won’t retaliate,” Sar’een explained. 

“Fine. Then Revas will stay with you.”

“No!” Revas and Sar’een said it in unison, neither one wanting to be stuck with the other. Her hand subconsciously went to her scarred lip. The idea of his judgmental eyes watching over her was worse than the idea of her being alone with all these Chantry forces.

“Please Elain…” she started.

“Twig will stay then. He’s in no condition to fight right now, but he’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. He can--”

“Elain,” Sar’een said sternly this time, “No one is staying with me. You need to let go.”

She saw Elain’s resolve slowly coming down. A deep frown graced her mouth, then her lip started to quiver. Her eyes grew wide and full of unshed tears, and she looked around the room as if she was an animal trapped, unable to escape. As quickly as it came though, the moment of fear fled, and she straightened her shoulders, her mask of authority coming back.

“I am the Maiden of the Hunt; if I say someone stays, then they stay.”

And there it was. Sar’een sighed loudly and heard Revas and Twig groan. Just like the trapped animal, she was thrashing out, trying to save herself and save face. It was a silly gesture. There was no opposition here to fight with, no Council to impress. There were only the faces of tired hunters who wanted nothing more than for their lives to go back to normal.

“This is my responsibility, Elain. Go home,” she said, “Tell Bran’s wife what happened to him so she can mourn. Tell Deshanna about the explosion and the mages and the templars still fighting . Finish the mission.”

The battle was written all over her face, in her scrunched up nose and her blazing eyes. It hurt Sar’een to see it, but it had to be done. She needed to let go. 

“I’ll go talk with the Ambassador,” she said quietly, turning around to leave the room. She paused at the door, a thought still biting at her brain, “I’m not a child, El. Maybe this will make you stop treating me like one.”

She left them without looking back, knowing she would regret it if she did. It wasn’t often the Maiden lost a fight, and she didn’t want to see what happened when she had a taste of failure.

\----

The morning they had left Haven had almost been peaceful. The sun rose quietly over the Frostbacks, leaving a golden reflection of light playing off the green on the frozen lake outside of the village, and the smell of baking bread filled the air, slowing replacing the smell of smoke and death that had invaded Sar’een’s nostrils every day. In the stillness of early dawn, one could almost forget the chaos that had fallen on this little village only a few short days before. 

The little group of hunters in their awkward borrowed clothes and with their awkward borrowed supplies impatiently waited for the small escort to finish preparing. They had wanted to make the trip alone, but Sar’een insisted someone be there to help with Sorn’s treatment. His leg would not heal probably with just a field dressing. 

“It’s not too late to leave with us,” Elain spoke quietly next to her as they watched the caravan escort lead their horses to the unhitched wagons.   
“Yes, it is,” she responded, just as quiet. She had hardly spoken to Elain since the day before last when they were reunited, and every conversation had been short and tense. Sar’een knew she didn’t like to lose, but her pouting was unnecessary and annoying in the wake of everything they had lost. 

“Your parents will not like this. Neither will Deshanna.”

“I don’t like it any better,” she replied, her annoyance building up again, “But this won’t stay with the humans. That hole in sky will affect every clan from here to Antiva. It’s my responsibility to fix this.”

“It should’ve been mine,” Elain whispered as she took her hand in hers and squeezed it gently. 

“But it’s not.”

Their goodbyes were cordial and full of routine. She poured milk -- though not from a halla, as is customary -- on the wheels of the wagon that would carry them to Gwaren and slipped Twig a purse of gold for them so they would not need to camp during the trip. She hugged her friends, save Revas, who only received a terse nod, and watched them disappear on the winding road that led out of the Frostbacks. She had given them a little wave before they left her sight, and she was sure she saw Elain wave back. 

There was an ache in her heart when she realized they were finally gone, and that she was now alone in this. There would be no Maiden to speak for her when no one else would, no Shadow to shoot the first arrow into the enemy, no Twig to tell her a joke when all her troubles seemed like too much to carry, no Sorn to sneak her an extra bite or two of his food. For the first time since she started her training with Paeris, there would be no one here to save her. 

She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and headed back into the busy village to prepare for her mission into the Hinterlands.

\---

The boat rocked gently on the waves of the Waking Sea, rising and falling with each crest, and the briny mist that sprayed onto deck clung to lips and skin, leaving everything tasting like salt. The trip had made Elain ill, nausea plaguing her at every turn, and she spent most of her time in the humble cabin the Inquisition’s coin had paid for. She laid on the down-stuffed mattress in the room, covered in blankets to shield her from the cold of the winter sea, and attempted to listen to her friends discussing their plans once they arrived back in the Marches.

“We have enough coin that we can buy a place in a merchant caravan traveling north up the coast,” Twig suggested, rattling the small purse that held their gold.

“It’ll add a week onto our travelling time,” Revas said, “If we cut through the Vimmarks, we can make it back faster.”

“Sorn’s leg, Revas. Try to keep that in mind,” she mumbled from her warm cocoon, “Besides, the Vimmarks are difficult enough to navigate in the summer. They are perilous in the winter.”

She knew from personal experience, and she also knew he would not argue that point with her. 

“The coast it is, then,” he sighed, “The clan will get word of the Conclave before we arrive anyways. There’s no point in compromising more hunters for the sake of being able to tell them first. We lost Bran because of that kind of thinking.”

She knew that was directed at her, “Enough, Revas. If I have to hear one more time…”

“You should be hearing it a thousand times until it sinks in.”

Elain sat straight up in the bed, the acid bubbling in her stomach threatening to come up her throat, “Bran hasn’t been the first hunter lost to human interference, and you know he won’t be the last. You can blame me all you want, but I did not cause this!”

He stood up from his place on the floor, his mouth turned down in a scowl, “I warned you that something like this would happen. I always warn you when you disregard the amount of danger our hunters put themselves in for your plots! And every time, you ignore me. Bran is dead, Sar’een is gone, and you failed. A thousand times, Maiden. And a thousand more until you _listen_.”

Revas turned and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the wooden door behind him, leaving her fuming. These arguments were seeping into seemingly innocent conversations, and he was lucky that it was only Twig and Sorn who had heard. 

Twig turned and looked at her, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

She nodded her approval, and the stout elf followed out the door. It wouldn’t do any good, and she and Twig both knew. Once Revas had his mind set on something, only the Creators themselves could change it. 

With a heavy sigh, she laid back down onto the bed, and looked across the room at Sorn.

“He’s growing tired of following my orders, isn’t he?”

Sorn fidgeted uncomfortably and winced when he accidentally moved his leg while doing so, “I think so.”

“Tell me truthfully.”

He closed his eyes and turned his head towards the ceiling, “You ask for a lot out of him, El. Well, you ask for a lot out of everyone, but more from Revas. And you know how he is; doesn’t like taking orders, especially if he thinks they’re bad. Doesn’t like his freedom taken away…”

“He chose to be the Banal’ras,” she said tartly, discouraged by the truth of Sorn’s words, “He knew what he was getting into.”

“I don’t think he did?” Sorn answered, “It was a challenge for him; a contest to win. Only the best hunters could compete and only the greatest among them could triumph. It wasn’t about being your Shadow, it was about beating everyone else.”

“I warned him…”

“All the more reason for him to do it then, right? You know how he is,” Sorn explained, “Now, however many years later, he’s realizing that living as your Shadow may not have been the best choice.”

She had her suspicions, but it was painful to hear them brought to life. Her stomach turned, and she felt sick again. Sick from what he was becoming, sick from what she had done to him, sick for all the failure piling up on her.

“Will he start turning the hunters against me?” she asked him quietly. 

Sorn shook his head, “No. Revas is a lot of things, but disloyal is not one of them. But he’s not good at hiding his anger, and the other hunters are going to feel that too. To be honest, they’ll be sympathetic. It’s been a long time since you’ve fought in skirmishes or did a lot of hunting yourself. While you’re busy handling the diplomacy and politics, he’s been doing your fighting for you. If you’re not there to cut an animal loose from a snare or stop a group of bandits from raiding the camp, they’re going to look to him.”

“And having you as Warlord isn’t going to stop that,” she stated.

“No, it’s not. The hunters like me well enough, but they don’t need to like Revas. They respect him. And he earned it by getting dirty and shouldering some of the burden all of us hunters share,” he patted his wounded leg, “Besides, I’m in no condition to take over once you try to oust Den. This leg isn’t going to let me fight anymore, and they won’t accept a Warlord that can’t fight.”

“I know,” she replied, “And Twig won’t agree to being promoted. He detests politics. Bran is gone, and Llyn is far too unpredictable...”

“Maybe it’s time to let that go,” he suggested to her, “Den is decent enough, and he’s only gone against you on a few occasions.”

“They were important decisions.”

“Which is why you need someone who can tell you no, El. Attacking Paeris outright was a bad idea, and Den knew it. The rest of Council did too,” he looked at her and sighed, “Sar’een is right; you need to learn to let go.”

“Not you too,” she groaned.

He gave a chuckle, “Yeah, me too. It has to be me. I’m the only one you listen to most of the time.”

She smiled at him, but it quickly slipped away, “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“She’s stronger than she let’s on. I think she’ll fix everything these shems messed up.”

“We shouldn’t have left her,” she started.

“She wanted this. We have to respect that,” he chastised her gently. 

Elain knew he was right. Sorn tended to be right more often than not. He had a talent for seeing the bigger picture rather than focusing on the little details like she did.But it still didn’t make her feel any better. She turned over in her bed, closing her eyes to invite some rest. The voyage home would be long, and her regret and failure would follow her the entire way. This was not her fault, but somehow, she still felt responsible.


	6. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apprehension hangs over both Elain and Sar'een's head as they cope with their personal failures.

They arrived back in camp an hour or so before dawn, when most everyone still slumbered quietly. The perimeter scouts greeted them first, eager for news, but Elain shooed them away and reminded them that Council needed to hear first. She was sure that they noticed their group of six was now just four, and that Sorn was all but dragging his leg behind him. Their tongues would wag amongst themselves, but as long as no word reached the bulk of the camp before she had time to prepare herself, she would manage. 

“They didn’t know much about what happened,” Twig commented, “Think that the camp hasn’t gotten word yet?”

Elain shook her head, “No. It probably hasn’t been reliable, though. It’s a long way from here to Haven, and even the people who attended the Conclave don’t know what happened. I’m sure any news that reached the clan has been vague, at best.”

“Then it’s up to us to give them the run down,” Revas sighed. As they drew nearer to the smell of halla and burning wood, he inhaled a deep breath, “It’s good to be home, though.”

She saw the tall, red sails on the aravels, as well as the clouds of smoke floating from the vents of the many yurts sprawling over the snowy campground. It was still dark, but it would not stay that way for long. Already, Elain could see elves stirring and murmuring in the quiet of their warm shelters to meet the daily routine of clan life. Her eyes fixed on the small yurt set a row away from Warlord Den’s pavilion, decorated with brightly colored textiles and a painted wicker hanging door indicating the hunter and the hearth worker that lived inside; arrows flanked by flickering flames, bright reds surrounding muted greens and earthy browns. 

“Wash up and get some rest before going to Deshanna’s place,” she directed her entourage, never drawing her eyes away from the little yurt, “Meet me there in an hour. And try not to run your mouth before I get there, Revas.”

“No promises.”

She rolled her eyes as she heard as the three hunters slinked into the quiet camp to have a short bit of respite before the excitement of the mission reports happened. There would no doubt be a Council called, possibly an emergency one with only the highest ranking clan members.If that was the case, it would make for a long day. It was smart that they got a little rest while they could.

But there would be no peace for Elain. She made her way to the small yurt, but paused before the wicker hanging. She could hear Virsa inside, speaking quietly to someone, her feet shuffling as she moved around in circles. Elain was tempted to just stay there and avoid doing what needed to be done, but her friend had deserved more than her momentary cowardice. He deserved a better death than he was handed, as well, but that was beyond her control now. She tapped on the hangings and pushed them aside.

“Maiden!” Virsa exclaimed in surprise, “I didn’t know you had returned! Come in, come in.”

“Thank you,” Elain walked over to the tiny table and chairs the yurt had and sat down. Virsa’s young daughter slept in a nearby cot, her chubby baby hand planted firmly in her mouth. She suddenly felt the vicious nausea that had overtaken her on the trip back on the Waking Sea. 

“The whole clan has been talking about what happened! Those horrible humans and their horrible tendency for destruction. Poor Sar’een. The girl is too new in this world to have to shoulder the burden put on her. I’m surprised you let her go in the first place.”

Elain swallowed deeply, “I shouldn’t have.”

“Most definitely not. But what’s done is done, eh? Can’t dwell on what we should and shouldn’t have done. What matters is you’re back now and can finally break this awful deadlock in the Council.”

“Virsa,” Elain started, her nerves beginning to fail her. 

“It’s been awful without you to put Kellen in his place. He’s been prancing around camp like a peacock, strutting and preening over all his wins over the ‘dissenting’ voices who want to bring the Silures in. I’ll tell you, it will be good to see him knocked down a peg or two, even if I don’t think we should take in those layabouts.”

“Virsa, I need to--” 

“Don’t tell me Bran went and saw his aunt before coming home to see his wife and baby, eh? Augh, I’ll never understand his need to please that woman!” Virsa continued to interrupt her, prattling on and on, until she heard the baby begin to cry, “Ah, give me a moment, Elain. I need to feed the little one.”

She lifted the child from her bed, and cradled her head onto her breast as she pulled down the linen covering it. The baby latched on right away, and Elain felt her hands shaking. She dug her fingers into her knees to make them stop.

“She’s getting to so big. Aricia says she looks just like me when I was a babe. I can’t see it though,” Virsa stroked the soft, downy tuft of light hair on the back of the child’s head. The same color as her father’s. 

“Bran is dead.”

Virsa stopped her pacing, stopped her stroking, and her arm holding her child nearly went slack before she caught herself. Elain jumped up from her little chair and guided her there instead. “Sit.”

She listened, her eyes wide, her mouth shut tightly, and the tips of her ears a burning red. Elain kneeled next to her and set a gentle hand on her back. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “He died in the blast. Twig and Sorn were injured as well, but Bran was…”

Her voice cracked and she nearly faltered.

“Bran was scouting further ahead and was closer to the site of the incident. We tried to recover his body but,” she trailed off, “There just wasn’t anything there. We’ll bury a bow and some of his belongings here, and have Deshanna perform the rites.”

Visra said nothing, still staring ahead, her eyes wide, her child noisily suckling, her grief building a dense, choking atmosphere around them.

“I told him he shouldn’t have gone. Why didn’t he listen? He never listens to me,” the tears started to roll out of her eyes, soaking her cheeks and jaw quickly, “Dread Wolf take him, he should’ve listened.”

The sobs began to come, and they wracked her body, jostling her baby and upsetting her further. Elain tried to set a placating hand on Virsa’s shoulder, but it seemed insufficient. She was not used to this. Usually Den or Deshanna or both informed spouses and family when there was a death, but this time she felt like it was her duty. It was her watch he died under, after all. She was starting to regret it.

“He didn’t even die doing something honorable. A goring or a bandit ambush or anything is better than this! Why did you let him go? Why? Tell me, please!” she grabbed onto to Elain’s clothes with her free hand and clawed on them as she sobbed. She buried her head in the layers, crying and clutching and spending her grief. 

Elain stroked her hair and said nothing else. There was nothing she could say to make it right. To make it go away. All she could do is make sure the new widow was not alone when the realization that her husband was gone washed over her. It made her very tired, and she wanted to be anywhere else but in that tiny, choked space with Virsa’s hot tears and feeding child. 

She imagined the towering redwoods of the Planascene Forest and her ascent into the Vimmark Mountains alone all those years ago. It had been daunting at first, but her life was still her own, and she faced the unknown with a quiet resolve. Those had been different times. That was when being the Maiden meant wearing the Mantle and serving the Goddess to her. Where it meant having everyone wrapped under her little finger. There were no doubts about her dominion, her right to lead. All the pieces fell into place and all voices stilled under hers. 

It was not the same now, and Virsa’s muffled sobs in her chest was a stark reminder of that. Things were no longer easy, no longer guaranteed. This world would not bend to her so easily, and the loss of control was real. Loss was real, pain was real, and the fault must fall somewhere. The walls of the yurt seemed to close in on her, and Virsa’s cries became distorted and loud, making her ears ring. She had to get out.

“I will go get your family, lethallan. You will find more comfort in them,” she said gently as she pulled the grieving wife off her. Virsa looked up at her and nodded, her eyes swollen and red. 

It was a lie. There would be no comfort for her. Elain could not give it, her family could not give it, and when her daughter grew and looked so much like her father, she would not give it either. Bran was only a memory now, and nothing in this world could alleviate that pain.

Elain left the yurt and quietly sent Virsa’s mother to her with the news. She suddenly felt exhausted, but there would be no time to rest before the other hunters would be waiting for her. The sun was peaking over the mountains, and time was short. This wasn’t how she wanted this to happen, how she wanted to approach the Council. She needed perspective. She needed answers. She needed someone to make this nauseous dread that she couldn’t be rid of go away.

And there was only one man who could give that to her.

She did not bother going to his shared yurt, it would be of no use. He was rarely ever there. Instead, she followed the path through camp to the large pavilion where he worked, his fires high and his implements all set out neatly on oak tables. Wood and metal shavings littered the ground, and bright green tapestries threaded with gold displaying the myth of June giving The People the gift of ironbark hung from the tall bracers holding up the heavy canvas coverings of the pavilion. It was thankfully empty this morning, but Elain still saw her father’s silhouette bent over the hearth, pushing the embers with a metal pole, preparing to fire some item he was crafting.

“Papae,” she called to him.

He straightened himself quickly and turned to face her, “Little One. You’re back. Did you just arrive?”

Master Vhannas’ creased face was covered in soot and sweat, grayish lines of the mixture seeming to drip down the vallaslin dedicated to the God of the Craft that marked his forehead. The sleeves on his dirty tunic were rolled up, displaying the scarring he received when he ascended to Craftmaster: elegant lines representing ironbark being tamed and shaped, the scars now faded and puckered from age and a life of hard work. The smell of his workshop, the sight of his graying hair illuminated by the hearth behind him, the sound of tools rattling as he set his metal pole on the table -- all things that were familiar and comforting to her. 

“I did,” she answered as she leaned against the table closest to her, “Along with most everyone else. I have to meet them soon to debrief Deshanna.”

“The news is not good.”

It was a statement, not a question. Vhannas never asked questions if he knew the answers. A waste of his precious time.

“No,” she sighed, “The Conclave was a disaster. Bran died in the explosion, and the shemlen think Sar’een is some kind of religious figure now. I couldn’t convince her to return.”

He narrowed his eyes, “That sounds unbelievable.”

“You think I’m lying?”

Vhannas shook his head, “No, but others will. The clan already knows much of what happened there. Some are poisoning hunters against you, saying your hubris brought this on.”

The churning sickness in her gut flared up, “Maybe it was.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he stated, “What matters is that you regain control over the situation. Are the remaining members of the mission standing behind you?”

She rubbed her temples, “Sorn will, of course, and Twig knows his duty. Revas is becoming confrontational.”

He grabbed the metal pole and began stoking the embers again, more aggressively this time. This was always a sore subject for him.

“I warned you the beast would turn and bite the hand that feeds,” he spat out, “You should have tightened his leash long ago.”

“He would’ve only fought harder. You know that.”

“You indulge him because you think he is your friend,” he responded, “But he has made your time as Maiden harder than it needs to be. The dissent against your actions at the Conclave would not be nearly as bad if it hadn’t been for that beast giving the Council any argument against you they needed. He’s feeding the wolf instead of killing it.”

“I know,” she said quietly. Her fingers squeezed the edge of the table tightly. 

“The only friend the Maiden has is herself. You are the only one you can trust with your reputation. Remember that,” he patronized her before turning to grab the short sword she suspected he was working on, “Have you told Virsa of her husband’s death?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice nearly cracking, “I went to her first.”

“You told her yourself?” there was a tinge of surprise coloring his voice, “Why not have Den go?”

Her nails clenched the table deeper, tiny pieces of wood getting caught underneath.

“I owed it to her. Bran died under my direct command, during my mission. It was my responsibility. And I…” her breath caught in her throat, and tears welled in her eyes, “I just needed to. I failed, papae. I failed.”

“You only failed if you allow yourself to be painted that way. Convince the Council of the humans’ missteps, muzzle the beast, and have your fellow hunters sing your praises. Any ground lost is quickly recovered.”

“It doesn’t change that Bran’s daughter will grow up not knowing her father,” her voice was quiet, and she wasn’t even sure he had heard her. But his shoulders drooped, and he set down all his work, and leaned next to her on the table.

“Virsa is a good woman. She will find another spouse, have more children, and her child will grow knowing family. What difference is there who her father was as long as she is loved?” 

“Virsa will move on, her child will be loved, and Bran will be forgotten. His progeny and legacy burnt to ashes. Just like him,” she said solemnly. 

“We will all be forgotten, Little One. It’s just a matter of time,” he said cooly, “Eventually, even the Maiden will be lost to the ages. Such is the lot that the Dalish have been cast.”

Vhannas always had a way with getting to the core of her seemingly untouchable fears. She and her father were very similar, but Elain was never able to place her finger on the tension and strain that often plagued her. Vhannas could pinpoint and shoot it as well as any archer. Today was no different.

Inevitably was what had been haunting her. The inevitably of death, of her star fading, of Revas growing tired of her, of failure, of her brother taking everything from her and grinding it under his heel. The lack of control was cornering her, pouring an air of melancholy over her, and making her second guess her own actions. She had lost Bran, lost Sar’een, and her control over everything else was slipping between her fingers like sand. 

“I’m already lost, papae. How do I get a tighter grip on the reins? How do I get it back under my control?” she asked, desperate to alleviate this sense of drowning.

“I already told you,” he answered shortly, “You take that control yourself. It’s all within your grasp if you work for it. Stop doubting and resume your duties. This faltering is unlike you.”

“I know,” she said, embarrassed at her need for reassurance from him, “But this is the biggest defeat I’ve suffered. Hunters die. It’s part of our lives, part of being children of the Goddess. Death follows us with every life we take, as it should be. Bran’s own death will not be a terrible mark against me. But Sar’een...losing a First is entirely different. And losing her to humans? Paeris will not let it go unanswered.”

Vhannas held the shortsword up to his face, examining the blade before beginning work on it, “You’re right, but remember: Sar’een has always been his weakness. He may do something rash on her account and discredit himself before he can move against you and the Council.”

“It’s been a long time since he’s seen her. The same softness he had before may not apply.”

“It will. When you shape and form a child as if from clay, that attachment never leaves. Just like the clay, your fingerprints are embedded there, a reflection of your own pride, your own soul,” he pointed the sword in front of him, testing the weight, “It’s why I endure your endless doubt this morning.”

She smiled at his barb, but the levity left her immediately. This matter was more serious than he believed, “Still, Sar’een is a mage and mages are precious. The Diceni will want answers regardless. As will other clans. We cannot go the way of Sabrae.”

“Then give them answers. Tell them that Sar’een is being held hostage by the Chantry.”

“But she’s not,” Elain argued, “She stayed willingly.”

“They will not know that. Bend the truth to suit your needs, and when they send for her, Sar’een herself will respond of her well-being and need to stay to fix this mess. The clans are satisfied, Sar’een is safe, and you are absolved.”

She was not taken aback by Vhannas’ deceptiveness, but rather, rolled her tongue against the back of her teeth, deep in thought. The idea was simple and subtle, easy to pass off as the truth. The clan would not question it, and it would vilify the Chantry -- an easy target -- taking the pressure off her for the time being. It’s not how she liked to handle these things; the truth always seemed to have a way to come out. But she was desperate to regain the control she felt she was losing. Desperate to hold onto the authority she had worked so hard for. Desperate enough to at least try.

“It might work,” she mused, “but I need to get to the hunters before they talk to Deshanna.”

He lowered the sword, letting it rest at his waist, and pointed his chin at the rising sun on the horizon.

“I would suggest you stop pestering me and go then. Time will not stay still while you hesitate.”

She nodded her agreement and pushed off the oak table to leave. She heard him hammering metal behind her as she hurried her way towards the hunters’ part of camp. It was her supreme luck that she caught all three of her entourage walking to the Keeper’s pavilion ahead of her. Elain waved them down before they made it any further. The plan had already formed in her mind with perfect clarity, and she needed only to get them to understand. And she knew they would. She would make them. She had to.

She was the Maiden, and nothing was inevitable as long as she still held the reins in her hands.

\----

Val Royeaux was more beautiful than Sar’een could have ever imagined. The streets were lined in marble, gilded with gold, the light of the sun glinting and glimmering off the pristine statues and buildings, making the entire city look as if it were a mirage guarded by the ever-present symbolic lions. The sound of music seemed to come from everywhere; it hung in the air like a soft wind, gently caressing you when you least expected it, making tiny goosebumps form on your skin at its touch. Delicate canopies of the deepest cobalt blue hung over all entryways, from the Grand Cathedral to the simplest merchant stall. 

The stalls held a number of wondrous curiosities that captivated her. One had tiny pastries touched with butter and drizzled with honey set out next to a stunning array of masked set with polished gemstones, the multi-faceted stones often matching the colors of the pastry. She was particularly fond of the cream-colored mask with embellished lashes around the eyes made of fine, downy feathers and trimmed with lace dipped in gold. The matching pastry was filled with custard and had sugar that had been warmed, shaped into a lattice, then cooled and placed on top. She gazed at for what seemed like hours, amazed at what miraculous things could be done with the knowledge and resources that the Orlesians had. 

Sar’een found getting lost in this decadent world was a decent distraction from the failure she endured with getting the Chantry on the Inquisition’s side.

For some reason, she thought it would be simple. She believed the Chantry clerics would have to understand the importance of closing the Breach; of healing the sky.Demons were pouring out of the Beyond all over southern Thedas. They say it in the Hinterlands in Ferelden, on the Storm Coast, even in small numbers outside of Haven. The magic was unstable, and the entire world was at risk.

But they had cared more about her ears than her intentions. _“The Maker would send no elf in our time of need!”_ The words had hurt. The Keeper and Paeris and all the elders back in the clan had always told her about the disdain the humans had for their kind. Sar’een found it hard to believe. Master Vhannas and his apprentices had no issue with traders, and the hunters engaged with bandits and slavers...but those were criminals, not the best humans had to offer. Seeing an official voice of the shemlen’s religious order point out her otherness brought out an insecurity in her. 

What if she wasn’t able to fix this? Why did she even think she could in the first place? Because of the anchor on her hand? She walked slowly between stalls in the marketplace, pondering, paying little attention to the fearful whispers and gossip. Fixing the Breach would not be as easy as just telling everyone it needed to be done. She would need to convince them, somehow. The Templars already disengaged and the mages has reached out, but were not offering anything but a conversation. It would be up to her and the others in the Inquisition to make a conversation into a plan to save the world.

She didn’t think she had what it took to do that. 

Sar’een paused before another stall, this one claiming to have genuine elven trinkets, and she felt a sharp pang of homesickness. There were wooden charms carved into the shape of halla, painted in garish colors to match the heraldry of noble families. They may have been carved by elves, but they certainly weren’t Dalish. 

There was a blank one though, just a simple halla stained and varnished, and the homesickness overwhelmed her good senses.

“How much?” she asked and pointed to the charm.

The stall keeper, a dour looking man with a frowning mask turned and looked at her, “No sales for rabbits.”

His accent was thick and unforgiving, but she was determined. She pulled out a coin purse and dumped all the gold she had on the table.

“How much?”

The stall keeper grunted, and pulled in the gold closer to him, picking up each piece and placing it between his teeth to test for authenticity. 

“This is enough,” he took all the money without allowing her to barter, and roughly pushed the halla figurine towards her. She didn’t care; she had her prize.

Sar’een picked it up gingerly and walked away from the stall, running reverent fingers over the details in the charm. The eyes were beady, the antlers were crooked instead of elegant, and the face looked more like a cow than the animals she had spent her entire life around, but it helped a little. 

A little. Not nearly enough. She wished she had let Elain stay. Elain would’ve known how to get the clerics in line. Elain would’ve convinced the Templars to work with the Inquisition. Elain would’ve taken all this attention and planning off her and she could just enjoy what this world had to offer. She wasn’t good enough for this; she was stupid to ever have thought she could handle this on her own. Her cheeks burned as she walked away from the market, all too aware now of the eyes staring at the badge that declared her Inquisition and the ears and tattoos that marked her as different from them in every other possible way.

“There you are, Herald!” she heard a voice call from behind her. It was Solas, the other elf working to close the Breach. She let out a breath of relief. He may not be Dalish, but at least he was more like her than all these masked faces and chantry forces.

“Cassandra was looking for you,” he said as he approached her, “The transport is ready to leave. We’re going back to Haven to decide our next steps.”

She shrugged her shoulders, “Okay. Lead the way, I guess.”

He furrowed his brow and frowned, “Is there something wrong?”

“I’m just….” she started, but her words trailed off as she felt tears spring to her eyes, “I’m just very homesick, I guess. This isn’t at all what I expected. Please don’t judge me for it. You may not like the Dalish, but they’re my family, and it’s hard not to miss your family.”

His face softened, and his look of indifference turned to concern, “Of course. There is no shame in missing the life you’ve always known, especially when this world is so foreign for you. You are alone here amongst people who are not yours. It’s only right that you long for what is familiar.”

The tears fell over and slinked down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly, not wanting to seem like a child in front of Solas. He already made her feel inexperienced -- as both a mage and an elf -- so she tried very hard to pull herself back from the brink.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice coming out hoarser than she hoped for, “I appreciate it.”

He nodded to her and turned to lead her back to where the transport to Haven awaited. She followed close next to him, not wanting to get lost in the sea of people.

“If it helps,” he started, “I’ve found that talking about things that you miss can aid greatly with homesickness. There’s something about explaining the emotional connection you have to someone else that is very cathartic.”

“Does it?”

“In my experience, I have found it does,” he responded. 

“Well, okay,” she said slowly, trying to think of something to tell him about that reminded her of home, “I guess what I miss most is my friends, of course. My parents too. But there are too many stories there for you to get the gist of it. But I also miss the camp itself…”

“Oh?” he asked, encouraging her on.

“Yes,” she recalled the image of her home in her mind, vivid and clear, “Humans have strange ideas about how the Dalish live. They think we spend all of our time rolling in dirt with halla or riding in aravels. A woman in Haven even asked if we even had water.”

“But it’s all wrong the way they picture it. If they had seen it with their own eyes, they wouldn’t ask such silly questions. There are aravels, of course, but in camp, the wind sails are converted to canopies in pavilions so that we can have communal meals, meetings, and just be near each other. The yurts are what they’d never expect. Bright colors and paintings as far as the eye can see, smoke billowing from the top of through vents; some are embroidered and some are plain, but each is unique and a reflection of its owner. Mine had all my staffs and tools lying around, and a big, comfy cushion for my bed. I hid my leather bound notebook underneath it so no one could see the secrets I had written inside.”

Sar’een stared at the shining sun in the sky as she described her little home. She could almost feel the pages of the old books Paeris had given her, read and reread so many times, she knew all the words by heart. All the letters from him she kept in a wooden box, a bracelet made from halla leather and woven with seed beads as a gift from Elain when she officially became First, a beautiful wine colored shawl Nellia had woven for her...all things that reminded her of what home meant. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Solas, “That did help a little.”

“Of course,” he smiled at her, “I am always here if you need to to feel less alone. Company is also a good cure for homesickness.”

She returned his smile, “You know, you remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Do I? Should I take that as a compliment?” he asked.

Her smile turned into a laugh, “Well, he is very smart and always made me feel better so….yes.”

“Good. I am glad.”

They walked to the waiting transport, Cassandra pacing impatiently when they arrived, the nerves of the situation weighing on her and everyone else. But Sar’een felt lighter than she had earlier in the day, and vowed not to let the lack of progress this trip get to her. The mages had sought her out; that was something. She could build on that.

Sar’een watched Val Royeaus disappear on the horizon later that day, the wooden replica of a Dalish halla clutched tightly in her hand in her pocket. Today had been a failure, but there was always tomorrow.


	7. Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan attempts to hide while the Breach is dealt with, but someone wants them found.

Autumn in the Autini Valley was as beautiful as it was dangerous. The birch trees laying on the winding Minanter river turned the color of a sunburst; all manner of oranges and yellows and reds juxtaposed against the foreboding Vimmark Mountains lying in the distance. Their reflection on the fast flowing water of the river distorted their picturesque quality, making it seem like some kind of mirage, a hallucination projected on the quiet shores while the coursing rapids were where the true forms of the world lay. There was something unsettling at seeing warped leaves and branches being impaled by the sharp, dark rocks jutting out from under the river’s shallow depths. It was a reminder of the delicate balance of life and destruction that represented the valley itself.

Captain Erick Donovan had spent more time than most in the valley’s treacherous grounds, and he know the danger in allowing himself to become complacent in its serene beauty. The wildlife was deadly, the undead walked just as easily as the living with the veil so thin, but bless Andraste, there seemed to be very little rift activity. His soldiers were already afraid; dealing with demons might have made them turn around and run. 

They had been following the river but were now turning to make way into the thickest parts of the forest. His quarry would be hidden there.

“We’ve been looking for days, sir. I don’t think we’re going to stumble on them,” a tired, scared soldier piped up from behind Donovan as they crossed an empty glade to their destination. The trees were scarce but large, making it easier for large groups of people to move through. All the rain that had been pouring down from the mountains had washed away any tracks, but he could sense they were getting close.

“We’re not going to stumble upon them, soldier,” he stated, looking up at the position of the sun in the sky, seeing that is was getting closer and closer to the horizon, “They won’t be found unless they want to.”

“Then why look at all?” he questioned. 

Donovan was sick of these rookie mercenaries and their stupid questions. He had asked for a full company to track these knife-ears down, but was given a bunch of guard drop-outs and failed soldiers of fortune. His boss liked to cut corners when he could, even after Donovan had warned him of the issues that could come up. Half of these men probably wouldn’t make it out of this valley alive if they were on their own.

“Because that’s what you’re being paid to do,” he responded to the soldier tersely. They were gaining ground and getting close, if only these idiots could keep focused and be professional. Donovan could almost feel those elf savages’ eyes on him, staring through the canopy of the coniferous trees that surrounded them. He only needed to get them through a little further.

They marched for a few more hours, the sun completely setting in the sky, leaving the forest pitch black and eerily quiet. There were whispers of fears and uncertainty among them, and murmurs of discontent. 

“Shouldn’t we set up camp?” asked Westmont, one of the younger hires in the group. Donovan opened his mouth to affirm the request, but a sharp wind started to kick up, bringing bitter cold and the distinct smell of burning wood to his nose. 

They were very close.

“No,” Donovan finally said after determining the direction of the blustering wind. Westward. They were likely right up against the mountains. “Keep moving. We only need an approximate location to report. Then we can head back.”

He only needed to keep this pushing further a little longer, then it would all be in his grasp. The taste of vengeance was bitter on his tongue, but he’d have his share in mouthfuls. The thought of getting his due made the conversation from the weeks prior manifested in his head with startling clarity.

_“Got a job for ya kid. You’re the only one with walking knowledge of Autini, so you’re the only one I’m offering it to,” his boss had said, the ever-present ivory pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, “Think you’ll like it.”_

_“What is it?” Donovan asked him pensively as he sat opposite of Lokka at his large mahogany desk. The smoky air in his office was always warm and always suffocating._

_“Need you to track some elves; gotta flush out a rabbit’s den,” the dwarf explained while he worked on bills of lading._

_“Ask Bridger. You know I don’t deal with the bodies,” he refused. Donovan didn’t want to dip his toe in slaving, no matter how much better the pay was._

_“No picking up on this round,” Lokka explained, reaching down under his desk. He pulled out a leather pouch, as big as a melon and just as heavy, and dropped it on the desk. It jingled with the song of gold coin falling into each other._

_“That’s only the first half. Come back with the information needed, and you’ll get the other half. There’s even a possibility of a bonus.”_

_Donovan had never seen so much gold in his life. He wasn’t too bad off growing up as far as money went, but this was unimaginable._

_“Why so much?” he managed to choke out. The dwarf laughed._

_“Because the Duke of Wycome wants these elves wiped out and is sparing no expense.”_

_“What’s the catch?”_

_He pulled the leather bag back towards his barrel chest, “No catch. He wants them dead. Nothing left. But you could earn a bonus from me if you’re willing to leave some alive.”_

_Donovan leaned back in his chair and cocked his eyebrow, “You want merchandise?”_

_“Yeah. There is also a bit of a roadblock,” Lokka started, “This is Clan Lavellan: the home clan of Maiden Bida. You remember her? No? Ah, you’re too young. She hunted Harpin Ice-Veins back in the day, rode his entire company back to Rivain and gave his head to the Mayor of Hercinia at the time. The clan is the only one allowed to trade inside the Marcher cities because of her.”_

_“So expect some blowback?”_

_The dwarf reached for a mug of ale he had sitting on the table and took a deep drink. He wiped the foam from his graying beard after, and went back to his writing._

_“Maybe a little, but we’ve got some false papers planted just in case. The problem isn’t Maiden Bida though. According to my spies in the markets of Ostwick, the Maiden is just a title in the clan. She’s like some kind of leader for their hunters in what battles they engage in. And Lavellan got a new Maiden a few years back. You hear about that slaughter with the Templars last year before the Conclave?”_

_“Over by Ostwick?” he asked, “Yeah. A real mess. Bodies hanging from trees.”_

_“That was the new Maiden’s doing. She’s as bloodthirsty as a Tal Vashoth, as smart as a dwarf, and she and the clan’s Warlord have disrupted every major operation of mine in the Marches for years. I want her head on a plate.”_

_Donovan looked at the bag of gold, musing over the cost. He could finally buy a house for Rita with that coin. Finally do something respectable. But there were so many unknowns._

_“I don’t know, Lokka. It’s a lot of money, but I got Rita to think about. My kid…” Donovan explained._

_“Thought you might say that,” he pulled his hand back from under his desk and brought forward a scroll. It was a scout report, the wax seal long ago broken. He pushed it into Donovan’s waiting hand, urging him to read it._

_“Debriefing from about eight years ago. Three of my men got picked up when they were disguised as a caravan of traders. The clan had been raiding bandits in the area and my boys got caught in the crossfire…”_

_Donovan swallowed deeply, knowing where it was going._

_“Markham guards found them weeks later, their heads rotting on pikes off the main road. Didn’t know who they were until one of my sources in the guard told me about a tattoo on one of their necks: Chantry sunburst with a sword through it.”_

_His hands shook so violently, the scroll rattled. He knew the tattoo. Saw it in his mind as clear as his summer days in Kirkwall._

_“It was that Maiden’s doing. Or more specifically, her second in command; he was the one who stuck your dad’s head on a pike, on her orders. Their legacy is Glover’s bloated body, decomposing in a field outside of Markham, then dumped in an unmarked grave.”_

_Donovan sprung out of his chair, “You never told me!”_

_“Wasn’t worth telling, kid. Trust me. You would’ve gotten ideas of revenge in your head and I would’ve lost someone who turned into a good leader. Better than his father ever was,” Lokka waved him off._

_“I deserved to know,” he argued._

_“And now you do. Eight years ago or today, it don’t matter. Glover’s still dead and he ain’t coming back. But you got a chance to do right by him and make a lot of gold in the process. Enough to buy your girl that house she always wanted with a fancy room for your daughter to have all to herself. All you have to do is help me take these bastards out.”_

_All Donovan could see was his rage, his hurt. It had been such a long time since he thought about his father. He wasn’t the best man, the best dad, but he tried. Maker help him, he tried. He had deserved a better end._

_“Fine,” he snatched the pouch of gold out from under Lokka, “I’ll take the job. What do you need me to do?”_

He wondered if he would’ve changed his mind if he knew what a sad group Lokka would give him for tracking the beasts down; or at least, asked to go alone. The soldiers were all but shaking in fear at every inch they stepped further into the woods. Tales of monstrous savagery and human sacrifice with the Dalish probably didn’t help. Donovan knew it had been smart not telling them what this clan actually was capable of. 

He stopped suddenly when he heard a distant snapping of a twig. Some kind of movement, albeit quiet. It was too measured to be an animal. His hand went up to signal the company to stop as well, knowing full well they had officially crossed into the clan’s hunting grounds. There was no boar or bear waiting in that darkness for them. 

“Daggert...shine a little light,” he whispered low, and the company’s mage cast a glowing globe in his hand, illuminating the area. The outline of bodies and their reflective eyes showed in the shadowy glade, spooking the mage. The light went out right away, and he heard a rustling of the elves moving to surround them. 

Donovan took a quick look at the sky, burning the map of the stars into his brain. He would need to know where to lead a full force to. When he had his bearings, he rose his hands up in the air, and urged the others to do so as well.

“Our apologies,” he called out, “We didn’t mean to cross over on your territory. We were just trying to take a shortcut to Wycome to avoid the chaos. We don’t mean any harm.”

There was no response, and he didn’t expect any. He turned around and began to swiftly walk back the way they came. They soldiers followed but mumbled amongst themselves, afraid of the blackened figures moving between the trees. The elves weren’t just going to let them walk away from this. Autini was as isolated as any place could get in the Free Marches, and they were a long ways away from any shortcut. 

His own fears were confirmed when he one of the soldiers at the end of the line was shot in the leg with an arrow. He gave a petrified scream, but Donovan kept walking. The others did as well. Staying to help would only get them all killed. There were only ten of them, and the elves had the advantage. It was their hunting grounds, they could fight better in the dark. Donovan had to save as many as he could. These savages just wanted blood to teach the company a lesson. One would be enough so that nine others could live.

He realized the soldier taken was the young Westmont, and his chest ached a bit at the thought. Westmont was barely more than a boy, so poor that he turned to selling his sword arm out to feed his mother and siblings. Donovan would see to it that some of his gold went to making sure they stayed fed.

The flashing eyes followed them until they reached the river again, then disappeared into the unrelenting span of forest. The small company was clearly shaken, and he ordered camp to be set. Dawn would come in a few hours, and despite them not being able to see the elves trailing them, he knew they were still there. Best to let the men get some rest while they could. The trip back to civilization would be easier, but he knew his thoughts would be far away from the journey. There were battles to plan, scores to settle, arrangements to be made.

Donovan tried to sleep, but closing his eyes only gave him visions of his father, solid but always smiling, handing him a wooden sword to play with and a kiss on his head for good luck.

\--- 

“Where did you find them?” Elain asked the clan’s head scout, Llyn, sleepily. He had awoken her from a deep slumber to report a human incursion. 

“About three miles from the center of camp. Far too close for comfort,” Llyn said, worry written all over his face.

“Three miles? What were you thinking Llyn! I expected better out of you,” Den yelled at him. It was uncharacteristic of the Warlord to lose his temper, but a company of soldiers getting that close while the clan was in hiding was a huge oversight.

They were in Den’s yurt discussing the incursion, trying to get a better idea of where to go forward from here. Moving the clan would be an ordeal, as the valley was fairly inhospitable in most areas and difficult to traverse through. The area they had settled in until the fervor of the Breach blew over was meant to discourage any vigilantes from coming. It had obviously not worked. 

“They snuck up from the river during a shift rotation. I try to keep all areas covered during rotations, but this valley is huge. It’s just not feasible!” Llyn argued against any wrongdoing in the matter and Elain was too tired to make a show of proving him wrong. 

“Did you at least bring the hostage back here?” 

“Yeah. He’s tied up and gagged about a half mile from camp. Just east of Fen’harel’s statue.”

“Go get Revas,” she instructed him as she rubbed her temples, “Tell him to bring his interrogation tools.”

“Elain, you know I didn’t mean for this to happen…” he started.

“Just go,” she directed him. He nodded solemnly and made the effort to follow her orders. 

“Son of a bitch,” Den grumbled from his cot. He grabbed the ever-present bottle of wine on his table and took a deep draught of the liquid inside, “Can’t go one fucking season without these humans tailing us. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we have a spy in the ranks.”

“We vetted Llyn’s scouts personally. None of them are from outside clans. Their immediate families were born and raised here. We did everything right.”

“Still not good enough,” he grumbled, “I’ve been stretching myself too thin. Haven’t been keeping a close enough watch on what Llyn was doing with the _Ethinan_.”

“Maybe it’s finally time for you to promote someone to your Second; or at the very least, let me take over some of your duties until you do,” she suggested gently.

He let out a loud laugh, “If I give you any more power, I may just as well fall on my sword. You won’t be able to supplant me with Sorn anymore, but I’m sure you have someone else lined up instead.”

“I wouldn’t...:” she started to object, surprised by his accusation. Any drowsiness she was harboring left immediately.

“Ah, enough Elain,” he waved her off, “You’re not as good of a liar as you think you are. The stunt you pulled with Sar’een only worked because Twig _actually is_ good at it.”

“Den, I don’t…”

“I’m not getting down on you about it. I know how this all works,” he explained before taking another drink, “I’ve been doing this since before Vhannas got it in his head to plant himself between your mother’s legs. People rise, people fall, and you just have to keep one foot on the ground or else you’ll be one of them.”

Elain’s cheeks burned in embarrassment at his sudden revelations. She had underestimated him. The idea that Den -- constantly drunk, chasing-after-his-youth Den -- could be that correct in his observations unsettled her. Who else had figured her out? Who else could hold something against her? Who else knew her secrets?

“It was nothing personal,” she finally said. 

“I know. You’re just trying to get this clan under your control so that when Paeris comes knocking, there’s something to stand against him.But he hasn’t come knocking.”

“You have to understand the necessity. Paeris won’t be satisfied until all the clans of the Free Marches are under the Diceni’s banner and he plays the slow game,” she said. She never felt the need to justify herself to anyone, but he had caught her off guard.

“I doubt it’s that simple. It never is,” he sighed, “You’ve gotten lucky so far that the business with the Conclave hasn’t blown up in your face. And I don’t fault you for doing what you think is best. But if you keep pushing on the boundaries hoping for me to break, you’re going to have a rude awakening.”

“That sounded like a threat, Den,” she said quietly. This was not the man she was used to dealing with. She fought to hide how much it unsettled her.

“It’s not,” he replied, his voice level and missing any of the easy going lightness he usually carried, “I’m just warning you. I have my reasons for not promoting someone to Second; reasons I don’t plan on sharing with you.”

They heard approaching footsteps, most likely Llyn returning with Revas.

Den watched the wicker hanging over the door, but continued, “I’m not your enemy, Elain. Stop trying to make me one. It won’t end well for either of us.”

Her shock at his perceptiveness gave way to a severe paranoia, one that made her stomach turn. Den was not the man she had thought he was. There was another layer, just below the surface, that knew her entirely too well. She had underestimated him just as much as she had underestimated Paeris. She was starting to feel sick again, that penetrating nausea that came after she left Sar’een, that never seemed to stay gone for very long anymore.

“What’s the plan?” Revas asked as he entered. 

“Did Llyn brief you?” 

They both nodded. Den shot a knowing glance towards her, but she lifted her chin high and made her way outside of his pavilion. 

“Lead us to the hostage. We have work to do.”

\---

The spot away from camp the scouts were holding him was quiet and dense with trees. There would be no intruders, no empty air to carry any sounds to unworthy ears. He may have come up lacking in leading the Ethinan, but the spot Llyn chose to keep the prisoner was nearly perfect.

“Our initial probing didn’t get too much out of him. Just that he isn’t a slaver. Who knows if that’s true,” Llyn explained as they watched the prisoner from a distance. 

“He looks young,” Revas pointed out. Elain nodded in agreement. The night air chilled her to the bone and she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders tighter. 

“Like I said...not too much out of him. Let me know when you need a guard stationed on him again,” he replied, patting Revas on the shoulder before walking away. 

“How should we approach it?”

She stared at the slumped shoulders and the undeniable terror in the captured soldier’s face, “It won’t take much. I doubt you’ll need to hurt him. Let him think I’m the safe option.”

“And here I thought this would be fun,” the grin he gave her was wicked, and she couldn’t help but smile back, despite her sour mood.

“Watching you work is always fun.”

When they approached the boy soldier, the terror that was on his face became even more pronounced. His teeth chattered and large tears flowed down his already soaked cheeks. Though his arms were tied behind him around a tree, she could see his hands shaking as well. Elain was convinced she even heard a whimper. He was a pathetic excuse for a mercenary. 

“Why are you here?” she asked him, her voice low but clear. 

The soldier didn’t respond. Revas squatted down next to him, grabbing his hair and yanking it backwards, bending his neck to a point of pain. The soldier gave a yelp.

“She asked you a question,” he let the hair go slack, then pulled back on it again, harder this time, “I suggest you answer.”

“I...I...can’t!” the soldier cried.

Revas jolted his neck back and forth rapidly, “You can’t? It sounds to me like you can just fine. You just don’t want to.”

“Enough, Banal’ras! There’s no need for that,” she commanded, and he let go of the soldier’s hair abruptly. The boy’s eyes look lost and confused, desperate for some kind of gentleness. 

“You must excuse my partner. He is very eager to hurt people sometimes,” she walked closer to the poor thing, and knelt down in front of him, “I am the Maiden of this clan. And I need to know why you are here.”

The soldier’s eyes widened in panic, the whites nearly all she could see. 

“I won’t! I won’t! You don’t understand!” the boy shouted as tears flowed down his face freely once more. 

Revas grabbed the collar of his shirt as if he were to yank him up, but she placed a hand on his to stop him. 

“Shh. You will come to no harm from us if you will just tell us why you are here,” she told him gently. 

He shut his mouth tightly, his lips becoming a thin line, and he would not allow another word out. The boy was more stubborn than she thought he would be. 

“I cannot protect you forever. Eventually I will have to leave and my partner and his friends will have to deal with you,” the boy squirmed when she fed into his fears, “If you would just tell me, things would go much easier.”

His mouth fell open, and she watched the battle with himself play across his face.

“You-You don’t understand. If I talk, he’ll kill them!”

“I will kill you if you don’t,” Revas said darkly from behind her. 

The boy shook his head, “It doesn’t matter if I die! But if Lokka’s operation gets disrupted again, he’ll kill them!”

Elain didn’t have to see Revas to know that his shuffling behind her was the recognition of the name and of an anger building up because of it. Lokka was a well-known name to them; a carta dwarf who was willing to go to any ends to get his product. From the information they had gathered over the years, not only did he run a lyrium smuggling operation, but he also dealt in other despicable practices. Namely, trafficking elf bodies to Tevinter to sell as slaves. 

“Lokka is your boss?” Revas asked him brusquely. 

The soldier shook so fiercely that Elain was afraid he might be going into shock. She rested her palm on his forehead to calm him.

“Who will he kill, young one?” she asked him softly. 

“M-My fam-family,” he could barely form the words. Elain stroked his hair and allowed him a few breaths while Revas paced impatiently behind her. 

“Stop babying him! We need answers!” he yelled, his temper flaring up. This wasn’t part of the their interrogation routine. If Lokka was planning something, they would need to find out, but rushing the boy wouldn’t help. She shot him a look over her shoulder to warn him to have patience. 

The soldier openly weeped now, his cries pitiful and defeated in the darkness. 

“I was on-only trying to feed my fam-family. I didn’t know! Lokka is going to k-kill them no matter what! I got caught!”

She patted the boy on his jaw, “Just tell us what Lokka’s plans were and we’ll let you go. You can make it to your family and move them before Lokka gets to them.”

The boy’s eyes darted between her and Revas, “Do...do you promise?”

“Yes,” she smiled lightly at him. 

He bit his lip in apprehensive, but made a valiant attempt to steel himself by taking several deep breaths.

“I used to just d-do smuggling for Lokka. N-noth-nothing too serious. Just a few stolen items off the back of merchant car-caravans. But my family was starving! It wasn’t p-paying enough. So I asked for more work. He put me on this mission. It was m-m-my first ‘real’ one.”

“What did he send you here to do?” she urged him on.

“Just….just find your clan. Th-that’s all he wanted. He needed to know your whereabouts. I d-don’t know why,” the boy took another series of deep breaths, then continued, “All I know is he put Captain Donovan in charge of it. And Ca-captain Donovan doesn’t come out on jobs like this unless it’s really important.”

“He’s probably looking to ambush our scouts again,” Revas mused.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” 

“No, I’m sorry. I wish I c-could. But I’m just a poor nobody from a poor nobody town. I’m not important enough to know anything w-worthwhile,” he admitted, his voice full of defeat. 

“Alright,” she said, standing up and backing away from him, “Cut him loose.”

“Are you serious?” Revas asked her in disbelief, “He could be playing you! That information came way too easily.”

“Cut him loose.” The command brooked no argument.

Revas stared her down, a scowl in his face, but he relented with a curse and slid his knife down the rope binding the prisoner. The boy soldier looked up at the both of them, then stumbled over himself trying to escape. He ran as fast as his weak legs would take him, and disappeared quickly into the dark. Revas grabbed her arm roughly.

“What is wrong with you? We could have gotten more out of him. What he gave us wasn’t enough!”

She slapped his hand from off her arm, “He was a child, Revas. He was broken before we even spoke to him. There was nothing else.”

“There is always something else, _Maiden_ ,” the last word was said with utter contempt. 

Elain knew they might have gotten more, but her heart wasn’t in it. She felt like she was losing her grip again, the innate authority she had wielded for long crumbling in her hands. The information would not have been vital, so she allowed herself a moment of weakness. Not for the sake of the boy soldier, but because she was tired and felt ill from Den’s surprising knowledge. All she wanted was to sleep and forget.

“Please Revas...” she started, but the nausea overwhelmed her, and she leaned against the trunk of a tree before emptying her stomach. 

_He knows, he knows_ , was all she could think of as the bile burned the back of her throat. He knows everything. _Den knows everything and he’s laughing while I drown_. The thoughts refused to leave her head, and she felt weak for allowing them to bury themselves there. 

“Peach,” Revas breathed quietly, rubbing her back, his anger now dissipated, “This isn’t like you. Are you alright?”

She was not. And she knew that nothing could make it right again.


	8. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though she's in Skyhold, Sar'een still feels vulnerable. She looks to her new friends for help.

_“Help! Herald, help!”_

_Sar’een tried to follow the cries through the smoke, but it was choking her. Thick, black plumes filled her lungs, making her gasp for clean air. She felt like collapsing, but she pushed on._

_“Someone, please help!”_

_She fell to her knees and crawled, desperately searching for the source of the voice, her eyes stinging and blurred from tears. The ground was unbearably hot, scorching her palms, leaving devastating burns on them. Blisters formed and caused her pain with every movement, but she couldn’t just leave this person screaming to die._

_“Where are you?” she called out, inhaling more smoke as she did so._

_“Here!” the voice yelled, and she could hear it coming from right in front of her. Only a few more feet, a little more ground…_

_“I’m coming!” she shouted back, “I’ll help you!”_

_But the smoke rose up towards the sky, leaving the area in a great wind. Her vision cleared, and she saw the molten red lyrium underneath her, dissolving the skin on her hands and knees, it’s crackling corruption climbing up her body and crippling her with pain. She fell backwards and tried move off of it, but it was everywhere. It flowed like wine, like blood, and she was petrified._

_“Aren’t you going to help me?” the voice called to her, and when she looked up, the great archdemon spoke to her, it’s dessicated skin barely clinging to the rotted muscle and bones underneath._

_There was no time to react before the beast leaned forward and grabbed her frail body between its mighty jaws._

\-----

She woke again in a cold sweat, her breath caught in her chest and pressing down painfully on her. Sar’een looked around her room to get a better sense of her surroundings; the large oak desk, the low fire, the tall stained-glass windows. It still wasn’t familiar to her, but it was enough to ground her. She was able to breathe again, and she took long, slow intakes of air to keep herself calm. 

The dreams had only been more intense since the Inquisition arrived at Skyhold. At first, they were nightmares of Haven falling, the screams of people scared and dying in her mind, but only nightmares. She had those before, and often. The tangled, dark branches of the sylvan would sometimes still haunt her. They were severe, but would lessen over time, she knew. 

But ever since she accidentally found Solas in the Fade, it seemed her nightmares became vivid and clear, down to the last detail. He thought it might be the Anchor stabilizing itself. She thought it was a nuisance. She was tired of all these unknowns.

 

As she dressed herself for the day, she found herself wishing Paeris was there. He was always so comforting, so easy to talk to. He knew and shared things with her that only another mage would understand, and she missed it terribly. Haven probably wouldn’t have happened if he had been there; he was so good at seeing solutions to problems and acting before anyone else even knew there was a problem. Haven would still be standing if he had been in charge.

But he wasn’t. Everything was up to her now, and she needed to stop wallowing in her fear. If it were only as easy as everyone else made it seem.

Sar’een met her ambassador for breakfast, a little ritual they had developed to start the workday. She would eat her fill while Josephine gave her reports and lessons in diplomacy. Though she tried, the diplomacy came much harder than everything else. 

“The Duke of Val Chevin is, of course, not to be trusted in these matters,” Josephine prattled, swaying slightly as she wrote on her ever-present tablet, “He has a large stake in The Game, and any misdeeds that came to his servants were not at the fault of our scouts. This is a bid to drum up Chantry support.”

“Hmmm,” Sar’een murmured. She pushed the boiled egg around on her plate lazily with a fork. 

“And naturally, the grand clerics will know this. You being Inquisitor is giving them pause though,” the ambassador continued. 

“Mmmm.”

“The dragon you ordered from Val Royeaux arrived as well. We’ve affectionately named her ‘Sparky’.”

Sar’een nodded her affirmation solemnly before she realized what Josephine had said, “Wait...what?”

“I didn’t think you were paying attention,” she giggled before sitting down at the table, setting her tablet down on the wooden surface, “Is something troubling you, Inquisitor?”

She let out a deep sigh and slumped her shoulders, “Just bad dreams. And being awake too, I guess. I’m still feeling vulnerable after Haven.”

Josephine set her hand lightly on top of hers, “I understand completely. I still hear the screams in my nightmares. It was...horrifying.”

“It made me feel weak, as if I could have avoided this if I had been better. And it makes me wonder why I ever thought I could lead anyone,” her insecurities spilled out. It wasn’t her intention to burden Josephine with it, but she was desperate for some sort of comfort, “Maybe I thought because I was fated to be a Keeper one day that this would all come naturally.”

“Fated to be a Keeper? Because you are a mage?” she inquired.

Sar’een looked down at her hand, warmed now by her ambassador’s comforting touch, “Yes. The leaders among the clans are mages; those who can keep the lost knowledge and work the magic needed to sustain our way of life. It’s a very important role, one that we have to take very seriously. Since I’m a mage, one day, I’ll be charged with seeing to the survival of our clan and their traditions.”

“That sounds very daunting,” Josephine said sympathetically, “And overwhelming.”

“Yes, it is,” Sar’een replied thoughtfully, “There was a First in Clan Banalderas in Antiva...do you know of them?”

Josephine shook her head, “Unfortunately not. Antivans are generally ambivalent towards your people.”

Sar’een shrugged her shoulders, “Most humans are. In the Marches, we’re allowed into the cities for trade. They barely notice us as different from any other elf. It’s strange seeing how hostile Orlesians are to Dalish. Anyways, I was telling you a story, wasn’t I?”

“Trying to, yes,” Josephine laughed.

“Sorry, I get distracted sometimes,” she apologized, “As I was saying, the First in Clan Banalderas claimed to have some secret knowledge of the Elvhen magic that she uncovered and was trying to negotiate a position in a bigger clan with it. If a larger, more powerful clan allowed her in, she would share with them her insight. The Southern clans weren’t interested, of course. They are very insular and don’t like trading their mages very far. But there were some Clans in the Free Marches and Rivain that were interested.”

“Is that normal?” Josephine questioned her.

“Oh yes! When new techniques that were lost are uncovered, elves from all over Thedas come to see and learn. Even my home clan gets more visitors than most since our Craftmaster rediscovered an ancient method for lathing ironbark that makes our hunter’s bows the best in Thedas. So when this First had uncovered old magic, many clans were excited for it. I was very young when it happened, but I remember my mentor being very apprehensive. He said to me, _‘Da’len, you can’t trust everything you hear.’_ Of course, I believed him. He was very smart.”

“This First visited our clan on the way to seeing another who was interested in her new power. The Keeper was very accommodating, of course, and we held a feast of arrival for her. She showed up dazzling light shows with her new spells; the were colors I couldn’t even describe. Vivid greens and bright blues, like nothing you would see in nature. They were amazing! The young me thought they might be spirits or wisps, something whimsical crossing over from the Beyond at this charismatic mage’s command. I clapped my hands and laughed like the other children, but my mentor watched the display with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.”

“During the feasting, my mentor asked the First a lot of questions; where she learned her technique, who else knew it, was it something that could be taught in a short period of time, and a lot more that I don’t remember. The most important question he asked was, “Who taught you?”. I recall this, because the First stumbled and stuttered over her words. My mentor and our Keeper were very familiar with the Keeper of Clan Banalderas, and knew that he did not possess this power. It was clear that my mentor did not believe that the magic she wielded was new or important to preserving our culture.”

“The next morning, as the First was departing to make her way to the next clan, my mentor challenged her with the Rite of the Path. He called her a fraud, and said she would need to prove her abilities against him to travel through our hunting grounds safely. The First fumbled with her words, but my mentor told her that he would not even use magic in the challenge. She called our clan backwater and savages, but finally agreed to duel him.”

“The First began conjuring her bright and burning magic, and my mentor merely pulled the water skin from his belt and doused her with it. The blazing display immediately sputtered, and the First did as well. My mentor grabbed her wrist and pulled back the long, loose sleeves she wore and showed the clan a hidden bracelet containing flammable powder. She hadn’t discovered anything; she had found blasting powder from the Qunari and used it to make her spectacle. The clan was stunned, and the First was shamed. A High Council punished her by stripping her title of First, and sent her to a Nevarran clan to weave textiles for the rest of her days.”

“When it was all said and done, I asked my mentor how he had known. He only told me, “ _You cannot trust everything you see either, da’len._ ”

“Did you ever figure out how he knew?” Josephine hurriedly asked her, her eyes flashing with intrigue.

“No, not really. But he was a very clever man. He always seemed to notice things before anyone else.”

“And he taught you how to lead, how to survive?” she responded.

“Yes, he did. Or he tried. But the point I was trying to make is…,” she paused, furrowing her brow, “How am I supposed to know what’s just a trick, and what’s real? How can I know what the right thing to do is when everything seems so sincere? It was easier when I knew everyone in the clan and knew what to expect. There’s nothing like that here. It’s all out of my control. I’m struggling.”

Her ambassador frowned, an answer obviously eluding her, “It’s...difficult to give you advice, Inquisitor. I don’t know if I have one for you. On matters of diplomacy and etiquette in the Grand Game, I could speak for ages. But this…”

“...Is not what anyone expected,” Sar’een finished for her, “An ancient Magister who breached the Golden City. A self-declared god walking among mortals. That archdemon. It seems like a story too. One with impossible odds.”

“You’re not without resources,” Josephine assured her, “Not without friends. Learn to focus on what you can control, Inquisitor. The rest will come with time.”

Her words were kind, reassuring, but it didn’t make the fog of doubt lift. She still felt weak, helpless, unable to protect all these people that depended on her now. As she left the Great Hall to go about her duties, their smiling, hopeful faces only tormented her. 

The discussion left her feeling even more vulnerable. Left her missing Paeris even more. She would never cut through the deceit like he could, never be as strong as him. Sar’een looked down at her pale, bony arms in the bright sunlight of the morning; the ones Corypheus plucked her off the ground with. Spindly, soft things that she dangled from in his mangled fingers. It had hurt so much, leaving her covered in deep bruised and tears. Even her body was frail, easily broken. 

But Josephine’s words came back to her. Focus on what you can control. Everything else was making her question her abilities, but as she bunched her fingers into a fist and watched the tendons of her arm under the thin skin flex, she realized this was something she could make real. 

She changed her course and walked into the Herald’s Rest to find the only person she knew who could transform her into what she needed to be; if not on the inside, on the outside at least.

\-------

“Rise and shine, Boss!” the Iron Bull bellowed from the end of her bed in her room. 

Sar’een sprang up from her mattress, falling off the bed in the process. She hit the floor with a hard thunk, and The Iron Bull laughed at her loudly. She looked around to get her bearings in her loft, and saw that the sun had not even risen.

“Bull, it’s still dark out!” she whined at him as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“You wanted to change yourself, become stronger? It ain’t gonna happen in bed,” he answered her lightly, but she knew he wasn’t joking. Sar’een was already regretting this. 

“I didn’t know that you would do it before the sun came up,” she groggily pulled herself off the ground. 

He reached his hand out and helped steady her as she did, “No better time than the present. Besides, the training grounds will be crowded after breakfast. It’s better to go when there’s no one there.”

She moaned, “Fine, fine. Let me get dressed.”

“No loose clothing,” he called over his shoulder as he began to walk down the stairs leading to her room. She grumbled her discontent and lamented ever asking him to help her be stronger. If only she didn’t need to feel in some kind of control again.

The Iron Bull was right. There was no one on the training grounds, leaving her able to practice freely under his tutelage without judging eyes watching her. There was a tiny relief in that. She didn’t want anyone to see her failing. 

“Alright Boss,” Bull said as he tossed her a sword. It was light and she caught it with ease. “We’re going to start with the basics: that’s a sword. You swing it and kill people with it. Hold the hilt in your hand, blade away from you.”

She took a couple of practice swings in front of her, testing its weight, “I know what a sword is, Bull. I’m not completely helpless.”

Without warning her, Bull slammed into her, setting her off balance and making her fall down in the dirt. The sword fell out of her hand, and the hit knocked the breath from her lungs. She laid on the ground, gasping for air, staring at the dark sky hanging above them. It had been a bad idea.

“C’mon, that was nothing,” he grabbed her by the arm and lifted her up as if she were a sack of potatoes “You really gotta pay attention. A guy can get in your core pretty fast if you aren’t. Pick that sword back up.”

She did as he told her as she struggled through a coughing fit, her chest scorching in pain from the hit. 

“Now pay attention to me this time,” he said as his picked a yew shield up off a nearby table.

Sar’een readied her sword again, attempting to focus and fight through the pain, and when she saw him barrelling towards her this time, she slid to the side and brought the sword across his abdomen, hitting the bottom of the shield. It barely registered to him, and Bull swung the shield towards her, hitting her squarely in the face, knocking her down once again.

“Fenedhis!” she yelled as she felt the pounding pain and blood pooling on her lips. She rolled on the ground in agony. 

“Aha! That’s the spirit,” Iron bull jested with her, “The anger helps you focus. Gives you purpose. Makes your blood boil. Then you just bottle it up in your head and beat the shit out of people with it. Best feeling in the world. Now get up and try again.”

She didn’t want to, but he was right; she was angry. She was angry at him for waking her up just to humiliate her, angry at the Inquisition for thinking she was worthy of being in charge, angry at Corypheus for all the devastation he caused. 

And angry at herself for thinking she couldn’t do this. 

She sprung up from the ground, sword in hand, and blitzed the qunari. Both arms rose over her head, and she came down on his shield with every ounce of strength she had in herself. And after that, another hit. Then another. Then another. The rapid blows started to push Iron Bull back, and his light laughter and joking left. 

“Elbows higher!” he barked, and she rose her elbows. “Ground your stance when you bring the blade down!” She dug her heels in the ground. “Harder!” She swung with all her might.

Her arms began to feel heavy, her legs stiff, her back aching. Iron Bull recognized her fatigue, and slammed her again with the shield. She did not go down this time, but she did falter, dropping her sword.

“Need a break boss?” he asked her as he circled around her.

Sar’een hurt, but not enough. She picked up the sword, “No.”

He grinned at her, “Good.”

The sun rose and soldiers filled the yard before they stopped. Sar’een was covered in sweat, every muscle in her aching, her lungs burning and blood covering her mouth.

It felt wonderful.

Iron Bull passed her a waterskin to drink from. She took a deep draught, and it was the best tasting water that had ever hit her lips. She groaned in satisfaction.

“You did good today, Boss,” Bull commented, “Still don’t understand why you need to get strong though. Being a mage and all.”

“Magic doesn’t mean much against gods,” she replied, her chest still rising and falling rapidly from her panting, “And I’m tired of being weak. I need to be strong to lead the Inquisition.”

Bull cocked an eyebrow at her, “I’m not even going to pretend to know anything about gods. It’s all demons and bullshit to me. But for what it’s worth...I don’t think you’re weak.”

She choked out a laugh, “Are you kidding? Did you see how far I flew when you hit me with the shield bash?”

“Yeah, I did. I’ve never seen such noodly arms flailing in the wind,” he chuckled, and she did the same along with him, “But you’re not weak. A lot of people would’ve walked away. Given up. But you didn’t. These people are looking for something to believe in, something to get them out of this shitshow. And under those noodly arms, I think you have what it takes. You have strength where it counts.”

He pointed to her chest, the tip of his finger hovering over her ribcage. The area encasing her heart.

“You’ll be okay, Boss. No one walks away from what you did without being scared.”

“Thanks Bull,” she said quietly, staring down at her feet. His words humbled her.

“Anytime,” he poured the rest of the waterskin over his sweating face, and went to leave. “Same time tomorrow?”

She smiled brightly at him, her mouth stretching across her face in genuine appreciation.

“Absolutely.”


	9. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunters of Clan Lavellan deal with the increasing attacks from human forces. Hard choices have to be made in order to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ghilas adahlen" - Go to the trees in Elvhen

When the mercenaries first came to Autini, it had been in small numbers. The first was the small scouting party the Ethinan had captured a prisoner from. The next had been a larger group; not big enough to overwhelm the clan, but too large to take the risk of attacking. The group had fortified the northern part of the valley, skirting the boundaries and moving up and down the Minanter river with supplies. 

The second group had been easy enough to disrupt. Llyn and the Ethinan were able to sabotage their equipment, drove away the game that fed the contingent, and picked off the mercenaries’ scouts who had wandered too far. After a couple of weeks, they had retreated out of the interior of the valley, leaving only a token force to hold their meager fortifications. 

Warlord Den had overrode the Maiden’s request to wipe out the remaining mercenaries. It didn’t seem responsible at the time. They weren’t smuggling, moving slaves or lyrium, and by their reports, were soldiers. Smugglers and slavers were easy to kill without the Amalgamated Guard of the Free Marches sniffing around. But fully armored, trained soldiers were another story. The risk was too high, and Den didn’t want to endanger the clan while they were cornered in Autini. They may have had the advantage, but unnecessary gambles weren’t worth the chance. 

It pained him immensely when the soldiers returned in force. Elain will be right and flaunt it front of the Council, using it to try to displace him. When the news came to him, Den had drank twice as much as usual and ended up in bed with one of huntresses he knew was married. The morning after, the weightless emptiness that seemed to haunt him was still there, and he knew the quiet bliss of obliviousness would only come at the bottom of another bottle and at the end of his cock. Part of him wanted neither. He was starting to feel old.

At first the new group of soldiers just ran up and down the river, scouting, hunting, getting a general map of the area. But then more arrived. A division came, dozens of soldiers strong, circling the valley like a pack of wolves circling carrion. 

On the first day of winter, they attacked. The full division didn’t fall on them, but smaller strike teams, relentlessly hounding the hunters. They lost three apprentices in the first strike, and Den felt it keenly. He had miscalculated, Elain had miscalculated, the Keeper had miscalculated...they all underestimated the true threat of these humans. 

Hindsight is a curse spoken by Dirthamen, and as Den stood in the middle of a yet another attack with these insurgents, he spit his own curses under his breath.

His sword came down on an advancing shemlen, the great blade knocking him off balance, allowing Den to swiftly cut him down with a deep thrust into his neck. The human sputtered and coughed briefly, but his eyes went blank and his Maker was probably carrying him away somewhere now. Wherever that was. Den hoped it was warmer than these mountains. 

He sheathed his greatsword on his back and took a look at the field; the day was nearly won and the remaining shems were retreating back to the river. 

“Twig!” he shouted behind him and pointed towards the escaping soldiers, “Make sure they don’t get away. I want to find out where these bastards are burrowed in at!”

Twig motioned for the hunters near him to follow and gave chase. They disappeared into the woods, shadows blending into the night, and Den let out a deep sigh. The remaining hunters were slitting the throats of any wounded enemies. The risk of letting anyone out of the valley was too high, and he wasn’t going to make another mistake. The stakes were far too high. 

He sat down on the ground, exhausted to his bones from these non-stop attacks, and wishing he had something harder than the wine waiting for him back at camp. But this damn valley cut off his usual supply, and he was as trapped as everyone else in this cursed place. 

Den watched as the hunters built pyres and flung the dead bodies on top of them. His gut clenched at the thought of catching a whiff of burning flesh when he was this sober, but there wasn’t a choice in the matter. Elain gave the suggestion that they try to scare the more superstitious ones out of the valley by making them think the savage elf clan was eating their dead, and he was so desperate, he agreed. Every battle they fought was wrought with charred bones afterwards, but the Maiden hadn’t seemed phased. 

He should be either. He’d seen war, known it all his life. It was born and bred in him just as being Dalish was, but he never liked handling the dead afterwards. Kill them quick and clean, enjoy the buzz it gave, then move on and let someone else deal with it. Den’s father never liked that he thought that way, but then, Den’s father was also dead.

“We have to move back to the camp,” he heard Elain approaching him from behind. and he closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. If he never had to hear her persistent patronizing ever again he’d be happy, truly happy. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said, standing up from the ground, “You still think this is my first time doing this.”

“No, I don’t,” she snapped at him as she slung her bow over her shoulder, “But this may be the first time you’ve done this sober.”

He laughed, his gut loosening up and the cloud floating over him lifting, “I’ll give you that. Where’s the Shadow?”

“Already heading back to camp,” she replied as they began to make their trek through the thick woods, following the faint path they had made to their camp, “He and Llyn are going to get more information out of the hostages we took. Everytime we seem to cut them down, more are popping up in their place. We’ve got to find out their source.”

Den hopped over a fallen branch on the dark forest floor, “Already know where they’re coming from. Lokka is emptying his pockets to get rid of us once and for all. The piece of shit doesn’t like us interrupting his business.”

She smiled knowingly at him, a grin full of memories of the two of them burning every bridge between Lavellan and and this fucking dwarf. “No, he does not.”

They walked in a steady silence with the remaining hunters, their steps quick and light as they tried to read the camp. The air was cold that night -- colder than usual for this early in the season -- and Den shivered under his armor. There was something unsettling in the stillness of the forest, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight on end. He brushed the tiny hairs with his hand and tried to focus. The Veil was thin in this place, and the last thing they needed was to deal with some hungry sylvans right now.

No sooner had the thought entered in his mind did he hear the sound of tree limbs moving and breaking. He pulled his sword out of its holster. 

“Round formation!” he called to the hunters, and they circled around Elain, bows pointing outwards towards the darkness settling between the trees with her in the center to give orders. 

He caught a subtle movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his body to face whatever was moving. But the forest stilled again, and the only thing jostling was the leaves in the soft wind. It was far too quiet for his comfort. 

“Thoughts?” Elain asked from behind him, her arrow drawn and pointing over his shoulder. 

“Sylvans,” he said non-committedly, “But could be something else.”

“Probably so---”

The magical explosion was loud and blinding. Den felt the intense cold of the ice mine climbing up his back, and he stumbled forward to get out of the aftershock of the powerful spell. He turned to assess the damage and saw one of the younger hunters on the ground, unmoving. 

“Get him up!” he shouted, pointing to the boy.

Two hunters scrambled to do as he ordered, but their shocked expressions and wails told him what he already knew.

“Fenedhis!” he cursed, “Elain, you okay?”

She was brushing off frost that had formed on her Mantle, “Fine. Where’d that come….”

Her voice trailed off and her wide eyes as she looked into the forest behind him tipped him off to the trap he knew now they had walked into. With a shove, he pushed her in the direction of the camp.

“MOVE MOVE!” he bellowed, Elain and the hunters took off in a sprint, while he counted heads to make sure they had everyone. He took off after them, and felt another intense icy cold following his pounding feet on the frozen ground. 

A fireball flew in front of him, landing just left of the hunters, splintering the trees and leaving crackling fire in its wake. These shems brought mages and had just been biding their time, hiding in silence while his hunters had cut down down their own. Another fireball flew, this time landing just in front of them, obstructing their path.

“Split up! _Ghilas adahlen!_ ” he made the order and watched as the hunters when from moving in unison like a flock of birds to a scatterd, chaotic retreat. 

It was too little too late. Another fireball hit, this time finding its target, and the group flew in all directions, trying desperately to escape the intense flames, but the fire blazed like an inferno. Den knew escaping would be impossible if they kept throwing fire. They needed to stand.

He stopped his retreat and turned to face the mages trailing them. There was only one, weaving in and out of the trees. But there was also a glimmer of a metal weapon and soon enough he saw their armor shining in the moonlight as the soldiers he thought retreated earlier came running towards his hunters. He heard the groans of the injured behind him, and the sweat poured down his face. The fire from the ambush surrounded them. They had been cornered in. 

“Take out the mage!” he yelled behind him, hoping someone would hear as he brought his sword up to meet the advancing soldiers. 

Arrows flew past his head, so he knew someone was still able to listen, but it may not be enough. He swung his blade low, knocking the soldier down, then kicking him as hard as he could in the head. There was an audible crack of his neck, and Den moved onto the next. He wouldn’t let these shems take them without any blood. 

The next one ran at him with his shield, slamming into him. He brought his sword up in time to put it between him and the round shield. The soldier pushed back with all his might, but Den dug his stance into the ground and laughed at the shem’s wasted effort.

“Try…” he grunted and put his weight behind his sword, making the soldier trip over backwards and fall, “...again.”

The sword came down on the shem’s open neck, and he laughed louder when a pool of blood poured out. This was more like it.

“Den!”

He whipped his head around to see the source of the cry behind him, and saw Elain firing off her arrows as fast as she could at three soldiers flanking her. Den ran at them full speed, hitting one in the side and knocking him over as Elain tried to handle the other two. 

He pommelled the soldier’s face with his fist until the soldier passed out, teeth breaking on his calloused knuckles, fresh blood filling up the spaces between his fingers. The soldier made a few gurgled cries, but to no avail. There was no coming back now. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and Den left him where he was, still alive but suffering. He’d deal with him later; just needed to get him out of the way. He needed to get back in the fight; save the hunters that he could. Up again, he gave a roar as he ran towards his next target.

There was a mistake. Another mage, one he hadn’t seen. One that shot an arc of lighting right into his spine, crippling his limbs and making him fall as it crested through the metal of his armor. Filthy shems and their dirty fighting. What kind of bastard hits a man from behind?

“DEN!!!” he heard Elain scream.

“GET THE FUCKING MAGE!” he heard another voice. It sounded like Revas, but he couldn’t be sure. He could barely be sure of anything. He felt his flesh sticking against the metal casing of his pauldrons, but the pervasive numbness in his limbs distracted him from it. Den tried to move, to get up, but his body wouldn’t obey.

A second arc of lightning hit him, this time in his shoulder, spreading up his neck and to the base of his skull, and the heat was unbearable. He closed his eyes, only for a moment, just for a little nap so his body would stop spasming. He would kill the rest when he woke up. 

\---

“Get him to my yurt!” Deshanna yelled as the hunting party ran back into the camp. Elain followed Revas and Twig as they carried Den’s seemingly lifeless body to the Keeper’s pavilion. “Someone grab Aricia and Felsa! Tell them to bring their healing implements!”

She wrung her hands as she watched them heave his dense body on a waiting cot in the pavilion, and clenched them tightly together when Den didn’t stir when they did so. His eyes were half lidded and glassy, but Deshanna insisted he was still breathing. Elain didn’t believe her. She didn’t see his chest rise, and crawling out of his open mouth were writhing, pale maggots, falling from in between his teeth onto his pale lips. Black bitumen slinked down his face like sweat, and she swore she flakes of gold shimmering in the blood crusting on the inside of his ears. His face was already dead, and as he stared at her, his dead eyes stared at her as he mouthed, _The Goddess curses us_ , the consuming worms feasting on the sagging flesh of his face.

“Elain!” Revas shook her shoulders, “C’mon, we have to let them work.”

Pulling her gaze from Den’s face, she saw the Hearth matron and her healer had arrived, and they were already preparing their poultices and unguents. She saw now that Den’s chest visibly rose and fell, rattling as he did, but the maggots remained.

She let Revas and Twig lead her out of the pavilion into the cold night, but stopped when they were out of the way of the entrance, “I need to stay.”

Revas and Twig exchanged a look she couldn’t decipher -- a secret shared between friends -- and she felt sick with pain and envy. The look meant something, because Twig walked away without another word, and Revas stayed behind with her.

“You okay?” he asked her, the concern written on his face clear even in the pitch dark of night. 

The crawling maggots invaded her vision again, and the nausea floated up the back of her throat again. She swallowed sharply to try to keep the bile down.

“No,” she answered him, “I would’ve been dead if you hadn’t came. How did you know?”

He let out a sigh, and sank to the ground. 

“Llyn got the prisoner to confess there would be an ambush. I grabbed everyone I could and got there as fast as I could. Wasn’t fast enough.”

She lowered herself onto the ground next to him and laid her fingers on his shoulder lightly, “You did what you could.”

“Then I’m not good enough.”

They sat in silence next to each other, neither one able to say anything. Elain knew he would blame himself no matter what she said. It was just his way. He’d have to work through it himself, like he always did on these matters. No one was allowed in when Revas failed; not even her. The only thing she could do is give him support through a series of whispered words or a soft touch, neither which she could give right now.

For her, the image of the maggots eating Den’s body wouldn’t leave her mind, and the sickness that had been hounding her returned in force, and the smell of the burning bodies on the wind did not help. Autini smelled of death and decay, and it seemed like it would never leave. 

It was hours before Den was moved to his own yurt and Deshanna called an emergency Council. Revas had left her to take vigil while he worked more with Llyn. She hadn’t minded. Better that he took his anger out on the prisoner than stewed on it alone. She had wanted to sleep, but knew it was no use. As long as those humans were still out there, planning and plotting, she wouldn’t be able to get any rest. 

As she entered the Council yurt, she saw nearly everyone was already there. Den being hurt was earth-shattering news, and the somber faces that stared back at her knew it all too well. She took her place near Deshanna and Old Bida, and waiting for the arguments and accusations to start. 

“The Warlord is severely injured,” Deshanna started, “He’s resting now, but all efforts to wake him have yielded very little results. This is a devastating blow.”

The nausea churned in Elain’s stomach. It was not news she wanted to hear. The room stood deathly quiet, and she felt Revas fidgeting next to her. 

“What news did we extract from the hostages?” Old Bida asked quietly. Always the practical thinking. 

Llyn cleared his throat, “We found out about the ambush. And we confirmed they’re being led by a man named Captain Donovan, who is working for Lokka. They’re here to kill us or take us alive. The orders are vague, but they’re being paid a lot for a job like this.”

“How many troops does Donovan have?” Elain asked dully. 

“Right now about seventy. He’s expecting more incoming. A lot more,” Revas replied. 

“When?”

“Within the month. We need to move the camp while we can,” he suggested. 

“Agreed,” Kellen chimed in, “We need to get out of here before he can fall on us with a full force. How soon can we be out of here?”

“The halla can be ready to go by the end of the week,” Sohta answered him as she yawned, “Some even sooner. I say we send non-combatants ahead while the hunters defend until the rest of the herd can take the rest.”

“Not much choice,” Bida muttered, “But it won’t be enough. We need to send for help.”

“Absolutely not!” Elain argued hotly. She already knew what the old Maiden would suggest, and bile in her stomach threatened to come out through her throat again.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bida spat back at her, “Our hunters are wounded and Den is hanging onto his life. We need to call on the Diceni.”

“Bida…” Deshanna started.

“It’s either ask for them to aid us or we die in this valley. More soldiers will come and we have no where else to go,” she argued, “Let go of your pride or it will bury us.”

“Once the Diceni come, there will be no way to get rid of them. Paeris will assimilate us, have no doubt,” Vhannas gave his opinion, not hiding his personal interest in it, “Are we sure there’s no one else we can call on?”

A silence fell over the Council, and it frightened Elain. She felt this was the beginning of the end, but she refused to go down without a fight.

“There’s always Sar’een.”

The gathered group looked at her in confusion, including her own father.

“The Inquisition has forces in Kirkwall after the scuffle with the Prince of Starkhaven. If we ask Sar’een, she can send them to our aid.”

The looks of confusion gave way to pity, as if she was some child. Elain wouldn’t allow it. 

“The Inquisition forces can be here faster than the Diceni and they have more resources. Sar’een would not refuse us!”

A jumble of whispers broke out as the members of Council talked amongst themselves of the possibilities. As long as there was a chance, Elain would fight the Diceni coming to pull their clan out of the fire. 

“We cannot afford to chance it,da’len,” Old Bida said, “Send for the Diceni. Hands up for those in agreement.”

Most of the room raised in their hands, and she felt disgusted. All the hard work she had done, everything to keep Paeris from taking whatever he wanted, all for nothing. She dug her nails into her palms and silently raged. 

“The Diceni are far into the steppes this time of year,” Deshanna spoke up, “It may take them longer to arrive. We’ll send for both and begin moving the camp closer into the mounains.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Kellen muttered, but the Council were too tired and scared to argue. The meeting was over, and everyone wanted to go to the warm comforts of their cots and try to sleep away the turmoil that will follow them on their journey. 

As the group dispersed into the night, Elain found herself walking alone, past her yurt, towards the one that held Den now. It was dark in those walls, the hearth embers the only light, and she was afraid to look inside. She was afraid of what she would find. Elain never wanted this to happen to him, never intended it. She has fired arrow after arrow to help him, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

Elain curled up on the ground next to the entrance to his yurt, resting her head in her arms, and attempted to doze off. When she closed her eyes, she saw the maggots again, curling and burning behind her eyelids, and when she opened them, the vile parasites clung to her eyelashes before falling down onto her face, their little teeth digging into her soft skin. 

It was too much to handle, and she vomited into the dirt. She hadn’t eaten in hours, but her body expelled every last bit of food that it held. It burned her throat and stuck to her teeth and she wished that she had been the one struck by the mage’s powerful chain of lightning. At least she wouldn’t be feeling this.

Once she had nothing else that she could throw up, she wiped her mouth on the linen sleeve of her undershirt, her armor shed hours ago. She wiped the involuntary tears that flowed down her face as well, ones that came all the faster when she saw the white, corpulent bodies swimming in the bile sitting in the puddle in front of her on the ground. 

Blinking didn’t make it go away, shaking her head didn’t, burying it under dirt she clawed up from the frozen ground didn’t. She felt ill all over again. A realization dawned on her as she desperately tried to make the visions disappear and leave her, and it sent her into a near panic, making her pound her fist violently into the pile of vomit. 

They still remained, their gluttonous little bodies constantly feeding on her; parasites burying themselves in her and never leaving. There was nothing else to do, no one else she could turn to when she understood what it meant. 

Elain picked herself up off the ground, dusted herself off, and set her shaking legs to take her to the only person who would have an answer for her. 

Old Bida.

 

\-----

 

“Setting out the the Western Approach should be our top priority, Inquisitor. Until we can connect this ‘false calling’ with Corypheus, we have no other options. No other leads,” Cullen explained as Sar’een looked at the war table. 

The Western Approach was not something she was looking forward to, but she knew her Commander was right. Stopping Corypheus took precedence above everything.

“We’ll set out as soon as we can obtain the resources for the trip, Commander,” she said lightly, moving the heavy iron mission marker to the map, “I don’t want us coming up empty handed and gathering them there like we did on the Storm Coast.Handling a herd of deepstalkers isn’t a great way to spend our time.”

He chuckled at her joke, “I’ll see to it myself. The escort should ha--”

“Excuse me, Inquisitor,” Leliana entered the warm room behind her, startling Sar’een. She was always so quiet. 

“I have an urgent message that was flagged by our agents in Kirkwall. It’s from your clan.”

Sar’een looked at the parchment her spymaster held in her hand, and felt her heart race. All the other missives had just been left on her desk to be read in private at her own leisure. She was afraid of what this meant. 

She gingerly grasped the parchment, unrolling it to read. The letters were in the neat script that she recognized as Deshanna’s, and she felt a sudden pang of homesickness. But the message wasn’t full of the usual gossip and well wishes. It was a plea for help.

“The clan is overwhelmed. Well-armed and organized soldiers are harassing the hunters. I need to do something!” Sar’een said frantically to her advisors. 

“We..we can send a force of soldiers to help them fight back,” Cullen offered.

“Soldiers may spook the hunters. They are already on edge. Let me send in my skirmishers to help the hunters,” Leliana interrupted. 

Sar’een bit her lip, trying to make the right choice. She felt so helpless. She should be there helping herself, using her magic to...to...to do something. Her shoulders slumped when it dawned on her that she would never be strong enough on her own to help. She never could be. At least here she had the Inquisition to help her. Maybe they could do what she would never be able to.

“Send in your skirmishers, Leliana. You’re right about soldiers spooking them,” she said.

Leliana nodded at her decision. She turned to walk away and send her agents, but Sar’een impulsively reached and grabbed her elbow. It wasn’t enough to just give her the order.

“Please...keep them alive.”


	10. Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan's back is against the wall, and Revas faces the hardest decision he's ever had to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content in this chapter

Nothing can truly prepare a hunter for the difficult realities of killing men. 

Game is simple; only take what you need, never more, and be respectful of the kill. A boar gives its life to feed the clan, and that life must be honored by the Will of the Goddess through the Vir Tanadhal. It is the most sacred rite of the hunters and huntresses of Lavellan, one that permeates their daily life and that is held higher than all others. Even the rites of the Maiden of the Hunt are merely a secondary aspect to the Vir Tanadhal that Andruil Herself gave to the People. 

No, killing men was much dirtier. Their eyes looked back at you in disgust, and instead of feeling remorse and respect for their deaths, all a hunter could feel was hate. Hatred for this shemlen who thinks they’re better, who think somehow their ears and their Maker made them more worthwhile. The hatred burned like a fire in the hunter’s stomach, and the deaths were no longer clean and a quick end. Reveling in the suffering of humans who wanted nothing more than to destroy everything Lavellan had built up became as normal as breathing, and the pleasure derived from their dying screams was colder than the dead of winter. 

It exhausted Revas. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The non-stop attacks since they first found those scouts in the valley had been a drain on nearly every elf in camp, but the hunters were suffering the most. Being woken in the middle of the night to the sound of magical explosions, fighting at any hour they were needed, being scared to sleep lest another ambush fell on them. In the few weeks they waited for some aid from either Sar’een or the Diceni, he saw the well-trained force deteriorate into nothing more than animals desperate to survive.

He was so tired. Tired of not being able to finish this off, tired of not being able to win. Tired of trying to hold it together when death breathed down his neck. Tired of failing. He was angry as well, but that was something he was used to. The fire that spread through his limbs and clouded his mind was as familiar to him as the rising sun, and it was all that pulled him through this trial. 

It was another night that Revas sat in the Keeper’s yurt next to Elain along with the rest of the Council, waiting to hear news from Llyn . He and the Ethinan had been scurrying back and forth for the past two days, trying to figure out what these humans were planning after the attacks had abruptly stopped. Elain had wanted to send scouts further south to watch for incoming forces to provide aid, but they couldn’t afford to send off able-bodied hunters now. Anyone who could fight would more than likely be needed.

“We should be preparing to move,” his mother’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, “The halla need to be inspected to make sure they can be ready to go into the mountain terrain. Sitting here is a waste.”

“There’s no point on doing anything until we know more, Sohta,” Vhannas responded, his voice low, “If we head into the mountains without knowing what the humans are planning, we could be walking right into a trap.”

“The mountains are difficult to cross in the best of conditions; in the winter, they will kill more than they save,” Old Bida cut in. 

“So we just wait here until the Ethinan can bring us back news? News that might change in an hour, like it has been lately?” Sohta shot back hotly, “We need to do something!”

“Mamae…” Elain said quietly.

“I can’t believe you! There are humans attacking us constantly for weeks, and you all just want to sit and wait _just in case_ they might attack again!, “ Sohta was yelling now, “They will come and the longer we wait, the more dangerous it is for us!”

The Council broke out in loud whispers at her outburst, and the tension in the air was thick. Revas imagined he could almost see it; this thick, transparent cloud of fear and doubt that hovered over them, around them. His mother was right. 

“I agree,” he spoke up, “We need to get out of here. The humans know where we are and that gives them the upperhand.”

“And who cares what you think? You aren’t part of this Council and are only allowed here on behalf of the Maiden. We don’t need your opinions on the matter,” Hearth matron Aricia said bitterly. Sohta rose up quickly from her seat as if to move against her.

“Enough,” Deshanna cut in sternly, “There are no pretenses tonight. This is a matter of survival, not tradition.”

Aricia made a huffing noise and Sohta sat back down slowly, staring daggers through her the entire time. Revas was angry himself, but was too tired to expend his energy on this. The room went quiet once more, everyone lost in their own anxieties as they waited.

By the grace of the gods, Llyn finally made it to the pavilion shortly after, Twig trailing closely behind him, breaking the deafening silence that settled over the meeting.

“Keeper! I have news,” he was out of breath and all but jogging to the front of the pavilion. The faces of the Council fell on him, eyes wide and fearful.

“Please share it with us, lethallin,” Deshanna said gently. 

“Donovan received reinforcements. He has over two hundred men following him now,” he was gasping and his shoulders were shaking, “And he gave an order to march. They are moving up the river on skiffs on rotation, but they’re camped right now. They’ll be here by tomorrow evening.”

“How did you find this out?” the Keeper pressed him.

“He sent word to one of our scouts himself.”

“Why?” Vhannas interrupted, his voice sharp. 

“The messenger said…” he paused , taking a deep breath, “He said Donovan wants us to know who will be putting the clan to the sword.” 

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t a cloud of tension. Now, it was utterly suffocating horror. One day out. Over two hundred soldiers. Almost double the amount of hunters they had now. Revas swallowed deeply. 

“We need to move. Now,” Elain said.

“Sohta, get the herd ready. Aricia, prepare to move all the yurts we can. You will need to wait until sunrise, but get the food rations and supplies ready to go in the meantime,” Deshanna was up and ordering the Council. It wasn’t a time for debating. They needed action. Revas’ gut churned at the idea, and his head ached when he knew what he would have to do. 

Sohta, Aricia, and several others left the pavilion quickly to get to their work, their earlier tension vanishing to make way for panic. 

“We can’t just move,” Bida said sourly, “They can catch up with us far too quickly. We need a plan to stop them, but Den is no place to give us one.”

“The plan is to try to outrun them in the mountains,” Elain replied, “They don’t know the terrain like we do. Catching up will be harder than Donovan thinks.”

“They’re moving over two hundred trained soldiers,” Twig explained, “But we’re moving over three hundred, including elderly and children and everything we own. Outrunning won’t work.”

“Then we have people stay to slow them down,” Revas blurted out. The remaining members of Council turned their eyes on him, questioning. 

He hadn’t thought the plan through. It popped inside his head and he knew it in his gut that it was the best one anyone would come up with, but it was still hard to stomach. No matter what, it wouldn’t end well for the clan.

“The bulk of the hunters will meet the troops down at the river. It’s the most defensible position. We can hold them off while the rest head into the mountains,” the words left his mouth clinically, the plan becoming vivid and clear, “Their troops aren’t used to weathering the Vimmarks in the winter. The clan has a better chance of surviving there. A small contingent of hunters will stay with Elain to defend the clan if Donovan’s men catch up.”

Several Council members blanched, but the hunters’ faces went tight. They already knew what he meant, and knew the consequences. He also knew they would do whatever it takes.

“Den’s not able to lead us out there, Rev,” Twig reminded him. 

“I’ll do it,” he responded quickly, before he could change his mind,, “I’ve handled maneuvers before and know that the hunters can follow my orders.”

“Absolutely not!” Elain stood up from her spot, “You’ll be needed to help defend the most vulnerable of the clan with me if Donovan’s men breakthrough.”

“Elain, stop,” he shot her a warning look, “You know if they break through it’ll be hopeless. The only thing that will save us is letting the hunters hold them off.”

“He’s right, El,” Twig broke in, “We’ll need everyone we can to stop Donovan from getting to the bulk of the clan. If you’re waiting for him to defend when Donovan’s men come, it’ll already be too late.”

She shook her head violently, her lips pursing and beginning to tremble. Revas looked away from her face.

“Then I’m going as well,” she stated with all the authority she could muster, “The Maiden should stand with her hunters.”

He knew she wouldn’t back down willinging, but this wasn’t a fight she would win, “You need to protect the clan in case we fail. They’re already scared, lost. It’s your job to show them the Goddess is on our side.”

“He’s right. The People are panicked and scared. They need to know the Mother of Hares still exerts Her Will. Let the boy go,” Old Bida lectured her. 

“He’s my Shadow! He oathed to stand for me,” Elain was losing control, and it hurt him to see it, “You can’t just drop your promises to The Huntress, Revas!”

“I’m standing for you by protecting your charges. If the Clan dies, the glory of Andruil dies with us,” he explained, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. He didn’t think he had the strength to. There was a pause, and then a deep intake of breath.

“Fine. I can see oaths and tradition mean nothing amongst chaos. You are throwing away lives, including your own. Andruil Enaste, _Banal’ras_.”

The last words were spit at him before she stormed out of the yurt, her fury trailing her like a cloak. Revas lowered his head into his hands. It has to be done, he told himself. There’s no other choice.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Deshanna finally said as the Council shifted uncomfortably, “But it doesn’t feel like it. This sacrifice is unworthy of our hunters.”

“We’re Children of the Huntress; we know our duty,” Twig answered her proudly, and others murmured their agreement. 

“She will do her duty as well. The poor girl always did hate to lose,” Old Bida said. 

“We’ve wasted enough time,” the Keeper rose from her station at the front of the pavilion, “Get ready for tomorrow. Get some rest. Spend time with your loved ones. I will prepare as best I can.”

They were dismissed, and it couldn’t have come a moment sooner. Revas felt sick to his stomach at what he was doing. He had just volunteered to lead the hunters -- his friends, his family -- to their deaths. With himself included. When he left the yurt and entered the cold night air, a shiver ran up his body.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Twig asked quietly next to him as they watched the rest of the Council disappear into the dark.

“No,” he said honestly, “No one should want to do this.”

“It’s not about wanting it anymore, I think. It’s about accepting it.”

Revas inhaled deeply, letting the stinging cold air of the mountains fill his lungs, “I know.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, neither one needing to say anything. Twig always understood. He knew duty, he knew sacrifice, he knew brotherhood. And he knew that dying was the worst fear Revas would ever have to face. 

_As we love life and hate death._ Revas thought of the old line from the Hymn to Falon’Din. _As we love life and hate death, guide us peacefully when we are lost to violent hands._

“You should try to talk to Elain,” Twig said after awhile, “This’ll be the first time since forever that she won’t have you to pull her ass out of the fire.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but he was afraid, “I’ll try. I doubt it’ll make a difference. She’s not been thinking clearly lately.”

“She’s just as scared as we are. I can’t blame her,” his friend assured him. 

“I don’t,” he said softly. He wanted to blame her, but it was wrong.

“What do you think is going to happen tomorrow?” he asked his friend.

Twig gave him a short chuckle, “Either we live when we win the fight or we die taking a lot of shems with us. Should be fun either way.”

\----

When Twig had left to be with his wife, and Revas was left alone in the chilly evening. Instead of going to Elain right away like he should have, he walked slowly around the entire camp. Some yurts were already disassembled, some aravels already full, some halla already penned and ready for their work tomorrow. He took a moment to make sure their hooves were healthy, their snouts moist, their fur unmatted. The one he helped see born two seasons ago trotted up to the edge of the pen to greet him, and he ran his hand along her jaw. The halla huffed and nudged him in approval, and for that moment, he let himself get lost in feeling the velvety fur and antlers. 

Avoiding Elain wasn’t the best idea. Better to see her and say his goodbyes than for his regret to be the last thought he had. She would be angry and he would endure her onslaught, as always, but tonight he had no will to fight, no will to play her game. He had no will for anything but to see her. Let her be cold, let her be cruel, but gods, let him just see her. 

He left his halla friend and made his way to her pavilion. The light from her hearth peaked from the bottom of the fur lining her wicker hanging, and he heard her moving around, her shadow slowly fading in and out from underneath the entrance. She was most likely packing for the move. He took another deep breath, then lifted back the furs and stepped inside. It was warm and smelled of her, all resin and smoke and softness, and when he saw the light cast a golden glow on her skin, saw her brow scrunched in thought, her lips slightly parted, it set fire to a longing inside that overwhelmed him.There was no goddess in his heart but her.

“ _Elain_ ,” he all but whispered. 

His daze of longing was broken immediately as the small box in her hand went flying at his head. He tried to duck out of the way, but the compact box clipped his shoulder anyways. 

“Dammit!” he yelled at the sharp pain.

She grabbed a comb and flung it at him too, then her cup, then a book that had sat on her vanity. He dodged each object and tried to close the distance between them to protect himself.

“Elain, stop!”

Another flying piece of furniture that he had to evade, and then she picked up her small stool. He reached her in time to grab it out of her hands, tossing it to the side of them.

“What is your fucking problem!”

“You didn’t tell me!” she shouted at him, “You should have told me!”

“I didn’t plan it out, okay!” he argued, “It just happened. There was no chance to talk it over with you.”

“And that makes it better? You’re running off to get yourself killed because you feel responsible for Den instead of thinking of the consequences!”

“I’m not running anywhere! I’m doing what’s right for once instead of hiding,” his temper was on the verge of exploding, and his entire body felt on fire. 

She wasn’t frightened of his temper, but her resolve was paper thin, and he could see her hands shaking , “Getting killed is what’s right? Letting the other hunters die is what’s right?”

“Protecting everyone else is what’s right and you know it! It’s not about my guilt or what I should and shouldn’t have done; it’s about making sure Lavellan survives.”

“And you’ll turn the tide? You alone will make sure that happens?” she scoffed, “Shem’assan always has had such a high opinion of himself!”

“You just don’t get it! This isn’t about me. This is about saving our people. And I’m no good to them up in the mountains. My job is killing, simple as that, and you think that me being away from the place where I can put my skills to use is somehow going to make sure everyone makes it out. This is too important for your ego to make the decisions on my behalf, Elain!”

Her scowl turned into a frown and her bottom lip began to tremble. He could see the tears forming in her eyes. She was breaking.

“What about me? Us? Is it more important than that?” her voice cracked when she asked, “You said you’d always choose me…”

The tears that formed spilled over now, and her red-faced anger gave way to something that cut much deeper. Memories of his scarring when he became Banal’ras came flooding back, and he recalled the agony he went through for her. He’d rather endure that a thousand more times than confront where they were now.

“I can’t keep doing it, Elain,” his resolve began to break with hers, the anger dissolving, “I can’t.”

She cried openly now, her features distorted in pain and her eyes burning with hurt. He hadn’t been prepared for this.

“You can, but you don’t want to.”

He clenched his hands tightly in frustration, “No, I can’t! I am _tired_. So fucking tired. I can’t do this anymore with you. I’m not a dog that will obey your every command, even when you’re wrong. You don’t want me, you just want someone to control.”

“You’d rather stand out there and die to prove a point than be with me,” her voice was choked and hoarse. His words must have hit her somewhere vulnerable. Her pointed barbs only made him more frustrated though, and he grabbed onto her upper arms tightly. 

“All I want is to _be with you_. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. But this title is everything to you, and I’m just another piece of your game to be moved around the board. And I am so tired of the game, El. So tired,” the words poured out of him, a confession he should’ve made ages ago, “I won’t hide anymore. I’m done with it. I’d rather die standing than cowering behind your Mantle.”

She stared at him in utter anguish, her eyes bloodshot and tear-stained. Underneath his hands, he could feel her shaking; from rage or fear, he could not tell. 

“I…” she started, lost her nerve momentarily, but recovered quickly. Her shoulders straightened and she looked up at him with sureness, “I’ll give it up. I’ll throw away the Mantle if you’ll stay.”

A heavy sigh escaped him, and he loosened his hands from her arms. She was wounded and thrashing, and he knew she was just saying anything to convince him to stay. Elain wouldn’t give up the Mantle of the Maiden for anything. Not even him. 

And yet, Creators damn him, he still loved her. Loved her with everything he was. But he wouldn’t let her lie; not to him or herself. Not tonight.

“No...you won’t.”

“Please Revas, I don’t want to do this alone,” she lost what little control she had left and pleaded with him, grabbing the collar of his armor and crying loudly now, “I can’t do this alone. Please!”

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her into his chest. She let out wracking sobs, and he stroked the back of her head gently, letting his fingers become tangled in the mass of hair. Her body shook as she let everything out, and though he tried, he couldn’t stop tears from forming in his own eyes. 

“Emma lath,” he whispered as he placed kisses on the top of her head, “Ma sa’lath.”

She only sobbed harder at his words, and she let her hands climb up to his face where they cupped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes begged him for reassurance, for him to change his mind. The tears now flowed down his cheeks as well.

Elain didn’t say anything else, and instead drew his face down to hers, kissing him fully. He tasted saltiness on her lips and felt the warmth and wetness of her cheeks as they pressed their mouths together. It was tender but joyless, a kiss of desperation and goodbyes. Revas could never savor it, knowing the heavy burden it carried of being one of the last. 

Revas still let her in, because he was desperate too. He didn’t want to die, didn’t want to spend the last moments of his life without her. His course was set though, and he vowed to show her how much he wanted to live with her even if he could not do it in body. He opened his mouth over hers, taking her upper lip between his, kissing her slowly and languidly, relishing in her taste. She let her tongue tip over his teeth and touch his shyly, all softness and heat, and she moaned when he responded in kind. 

It wasn’t wise, but he couldn’t stop himself from growing a need for more. There was too much armor in the way, too much clothing stopping him from feeling what he wanted, what he needed. Too many walls, and he wanted them gone, so he could feel exposed. So he could feel raw. So he could let her have everything while he still had something to give. He ran his hands under her nightshirt and quickly pulled it up her body, reluctant at first to break their kiss, but heated enough to do it for the sake of seeing all of her. 

She lifted her arms high into the air, and he marveled as the fabric passed over her skin, revealing all she was underneath. The soft curves of her breasts and hips, the soft skin of her stomach, the muscled thighs and shoulders, the protruding collarbone that beckoned his mouth. He answered its call and kissed and tasted her neck, her clavicle, the top of her breasts. He burned in every sense he experienced as he explored her with his mouth, but Elain was not satisfied with the short distance that had grown between them, and pulled him back to her face. Her naked form pressed against his armored one, and neither one of them wanted it to stay that way. 

“Someone could walk in,” he murmured into her mouth, suddenly realizing they hadn’t taken their usual precautions.

“I don’t care,” she answered, and it was all he needed to let go.

He picked her up gingerly, carefully, lovingly, and carried her to her unmade cot. He set her down, and watched as she stretched her limbs lazily -- full of her innate sensuality that drove him insane -- as she waited for him to join her. The time away from her warmth was torturous and he rapidly unclasped his cuirass, then his pauldrons, bracers, letting them all fall to the floor haphazardly. She watched with focused interest, taking in every inch of him as he undressed, her swollen eyes traveling over his body and mapping it with her mind. A blush crept into his cheeks, and he kicked the last piece of clothing away.

Elain invited him onto the cot with arms reaching around his neck, pulling him into the mass of thick furs, and he sank in the stuffed mattress next to her, pressing his naked chest against her own. She molded her body to fit his, touched her nose to his, brushed her lips over his, their hot breaths filling the almost non-existent space between them. 

He left his hands wander over her, fingertips drawing up and down her sides, slowing down when he reached the peak of her hip, then continuing on. Her own hands mimicked his, sliding up and down his spine slowly, making every little hair on his body stand on end. Neither felt the urgency to move faster, and their fingers felt each other’s skin in its entirety; from the tiny bumps of gooseflesh to all the divots and dips and weathered scars. They were content to touch and be touched, while their mouths expressed what neither one could say.

Muffled groans passed between them as each new sensitive spot was lightly stroked, and their movements were rapidly becoming more needful. Elain’s mouth found his neck and licked and sucked on the sensitive skin there. In return, Revas held her with one arm wrapped around her body, bracing her, while the other slipped between her thighs. Her moans were hoarse against his throat, and nibbled on him with sharp little teeth as his thumb caressed the wetness contained within. She rocked her hips against him to encourage him on, and he didn’t want to deny her anything tonight. Let her have this. Let her remember him.

The pad of his thumb found her clit and he moved it in small, slow circles, leaving her gasping and breathless. She flung her arms around his neck and clung to him tightly, as if she was drowning. Her little whimpers and cries in his ear were sweet music, and he found himself grinding against her in want. His cock rubbed against her wet thighs as he worked that little nub between those swollen lips and he groaned his own arousal into her ear as well. 

She reached down and pulled his hand away from her, and lifted her thigh, wrapping it around his waist. His cock nudged her entrance, and twitched at the thoughts of how good she would feel running through his head. 

“I want you inside me,” she whispered into his lips before she hungrily took them in hers. He hooked his arm behind her knee, and lifted her leg higher on his hip. With one slow movement, he slid inside of her, and watched her intently as he did so. Her head fell back and her eyes fluttered shut, all her hurt forgotten in a moment of bliss.

He moved slowly, slower than she usually wanted, but tonight she did not mind. He didn’t mind either. She was so warm, so wet, so reactive to all the attention he gave her. Her nipples hardened against his chest, brushing on him as he kept his glacial pace, and he dug his fingers in the soft flesh of her thigh as he propped it up. Each thrust was deeper than the last, and it felt right. 

The teasing had stoked her arousal and it did not take long for her to build to a climax. She began to frantically move with him, grinding her clit against his pelvis hard, all while taking deep breaths to slow the approach. He wanted to prolong it, but she was all fire and lust, and she was burning him up. 

“Yes….yes…” her words were soft but clear, and with them, he thrust into her faster. Her next words were his name. 

_Revas_ , gasped as he brought her over the edge with firm thrusts and soft kisses. Her body arched into his and shook, her climax washing over her almost violently. Her face and neck flushed a dark pink, and her gasping cries were too much for him to take. 

He rolled her onto her back and pinned her arms above her head, leaving all the most sensitive parts of her exposed. He licked and kissed her neck and worked his way downwards, pausing at her breasts to take her achingly hard nipples in his mouth to taste. She writhed underneath him, and wrapped her legs around his waist again, using their strength to pull him back closer to her. 

Lifting his head from its work and pressing his forehead to hers, he picked up his thrusting again. It’s what she wanted. Elain cried out as he did, and he used the opportunity to take her lips between his teeth and tug on them lightly. She felt so good, sounded so good, smelled so good; he wanted to bury himself in her forever.

But these things never can last forever. He felt the tension of his own lust coiling in his stomach, begging for release, and eventually she would take it from him. His heart beat so loud he could hear it in his ears, and her inner walls clenching around him as he drove into her pulled that tension to a snapping point.

Revas groaned her name and let himself come, the heat coursing through him spilling out into her. A shudder ran up his body, and the melancholic desperation that had taken hold of him gave way for a bright euphoria to wash over him as his cock twitched inside her body. He panted quietly, and he felt her run her fingers in his hair, letting her nails softly scrap over his scalp. It sent shivers through him, and as he collapsed into her cot next to her, he drew her tightly into his arms.

“I love you,” she whispered as she nestled her face into his neck, “Please stay with me.”

“For tonight,” was all he could say. He kissed her forehead, and brushed her hair from her beautiful face. 

They laid in silence for what seemed like forever. Only their soft breathing could be heard in her yurt, and the hearth now only burned embers. It was if they were pretending that nothing existed but them in that little space, and saying words would only ruin it. They stroked and explored each other the entire time, not satisfied with fleeting touches, and after some time, they made love again with abandon.

He began to doze, his eyes as heavy as lead, but Elain’s were wide and alert, watching him.

“Need me to sing you to sleep?” he yawned, the events of the day finally catching up with him.

She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but hesitated. Her alert stares became obvious avoidance, and he attempted to draw her out with soft kisses on her jaw.

“I don't mind,” he assured her between the wet touches of his tongue on her skin.

“There’s going to be a child.”

He continued his path of lazy kisses unphased, “What do you mean? Whose child?”

“Ours.”


	11. Selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain's mistakes start to catch up with her, and she is confronted with them by the people she trusts the most.

_She had been terrified to approach the old Maiden. Bida had no patience anymore for mistakes, and had been known to lash out at Council members who refused to respect her years of service. Despite her advanced age and declining health, the fire that burned inside her was far from extinguished. Elain had always been in awe of her and listened to her more than anyone else in her life. Bida taught her the trappings of the Maiden; how to lead, how to know when to use your power and when not to, how to cope with the nightmares of the Black Forest that never truly left._

_In her youth, Elain had hung on every word she had said with wide eyes and an open mind. Old Bida was a living legend, and could teach her how to get the power she so coveted, but did not yet understand. Her lessons were never light, never full of levity. She was as short and blunt as an old blade, but her sharp edges could still wound. Elain admired her, idolized her._

_But then she ascended._

_Once she wore the Mantle, Old Bida was no longer the stabilizing force or the guiding hand. She became a tool to be used, and eventually, an annoying relic that tried to undermine her approach too often for Elain’s tastes. The loss of her innocence, her youth, her naivety...it was all part of wearing the Mantle. Bida had told her in so many words before it adorned her shoulders. So the old Maiden did not take it personally when the last remnant of the young woman Elain had been disappeared under the heavy burden of her title._

_But Bida’s patience with her was limited. She knew of her affair with Revas, and had turned a blind eye, but her cutting remarks and judging eyes did not miss Elain’s notice. Now, as she approached the familiar yurt adorned with the trophy pelts and stringed metal beads of her prizes, she couldn’t stop herself from nearly panicking._

_She had made a mistake. One larger than she could handle. There was no one else she could turn to for advice, for guidance on what to do, so she took a deep breath, filling her lungs, then entered the yurt._

_Bida sat propped in her cot, as was her usual now that her legs were too unsteady to hold her weight.She was reading some old scroll, her brow furrowed and her hands shaking. Once she noticed Elain had come in, she looked up._

_“You look like death, girl. What’s wrong?”_

_She nearly lost her nerve then. There was no turning back though, she knew. This couldn’t be undone, and Bida would not send her away._

_“I have a problem, hahren,” she started to explain as she sat on a small stool next to Bida’s cot._

_“We all have problems. These attacks are ruining my sleep,” the old Maiden complained, “And Den’s condition troubles me.”_

_“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”_

_“Stop with your useless placations. I know he won’t be, just as well as you do. And that means many changes will be coming,” she said ominously._

_“Yes,” she replied quietly, “And more than you know.”_

_Old Bida set down a cup of tea she had been nursing on the table next to her cot, “Quit being so cryptic. Tell me what’s going on.”_

_There was no use prolonging it. It would only make matters worse._

_“I’m pregnant.”_

_The resounding slap that came across her face was a surprise. She had expecting lecturing, cursing, reprimands, but the stinging hit on her cheek astounded her. The force of it turned her head, and she couldn’t believe Bida still had the strength to do it. Elain brought her hand to her cheek, and felt tears of embarrassment sting her eyes. This wasn’t what she had expected at all._

_“Foolish, idiot girl! Do you realize what you’ve done?” Bida angrily whispered at Elain. She grabbed her wrist and dug her long fingernails into her skin, “You have ruined everything we built up!”_

_“We didn’t build up anything; I did!” Elain shot back at her, yanking her wrist away. Her face still throbbed in pain, “I went into the mountains, I wear the Mantle, and I have been the one acting out the Will of the Goddess!”_

_“And was the Will of the Mother of Hares for Her Maiden to become a mother herself?” Bida did not back down, “Your arrogance has left you blind. I lifted you up, I spent extra care on you, I whispered in the ears of those who would need it, and now I have watched you throw it all away! And for what? So you could insist on carrying on this affair?”_

_“You told me that it was an unspoken thing among Maidens! You told me I wasn’t the first!”_

_“I told you that Maidens have broken celibacy before, yes. But never with anyone who could get them pregnant, you ignorant child!” Old Bida’s voice was rising in anger, “I also told you that these things never last. And now you know why.”_

_“Why didn’t you stop me when you knew then?” she asked her, shame coursing through her._

_“You know why. No one goes against you, Elain. Your father has spoiled you to the point where it is insufferable, and telling you ‘no’ would’ve gotten me moved to another clan under some false pretenses. Did you think I would forget Nessa? Or Nelrand? Or what you’ve tried to do to Den?”_

_“I would never have you moved, hahren,” she argued, “I respect you above everyone.”_

_“Not enough to listen to my advice, it seems!” she accused her._

_Bida picked up her tea and took a sip, eyeing her as she did so. Elain felt her penetrating stare, and never felt so vulnerable. The old Maiden dropped her gaze though, inhaling sharply._

_“What’s done is done, I suppose,” she sighed, her anger dissolving, “Is it the Shadow’s child?”_

_She hugged her arms tightly, suddenly very cold, and looked at the floor in shame, “Of course it is.”_

_Another sip from the tea, “Vhannas will want him dead.”_

_“I know.”_

_A last drink, the liquid sucked between tense lips, “What do you plan to do?”_

_Elain felt the tears springing back into her eyes, “I had hoped you would know.”_

_Bida set down her tea once again and laughed, making Elain’s shame burn her face._

_“You wear the Mantle; you figure it out.”_

_“Please, Bida,” she started reluctantly, “You were right. Right all along. I shouldn’t have kept the affair going, I couldn’t have done any of this without you, and I would’ve gotten rid of you had if you went against me. It’s all true. Now please -- I’m begging you -- please help me.”_

_Old Bida sighed deeply and laid back onto the pile of downy pillows on her cot. Her small, bony frame sank into them, and the coverings seemed to swallow the old Maiden whole._

_“There is nothing that can be done, da’len. You must tell the boy, you must tell the Keeper, and you must face the judgment of the clan. You sowed a field of power and danger that overlapped into each other, poisoning everything you have worked so hard to accomplish. Now, you must reap what you have sown.”_

_This wasn’t the advice she wanted and her disappointment was palpable. Elain thought there might have been some magical solution, some appeal Bida could make that would resolve this. It had been childish to think so._

_“My nightmares are also worse,” she confessed, “They are spilling further and further into my waking hours. I assume the Goddess with have her due as well.”_

_There was silence between them, heavy and dark, both understanding the full consequences of having the glassy black eyes of Andruil fall on them in judgment._

_“Perhaps,” was all Old Bida said._

\---

After Elain had spoken to Old Bida, the attacks on the clan had become worse. Everyone slept in shifts, always on call for the next ambush, and she had barely had time to fully understand the consequences of her unexpected condition. Staying alive had been more important. 

There had been no opportunity to tell Revas. She was selfishly thankful for that, since revealing it to Bida had not given her the response she expected. Elain came to realize she did not know how he would react either. Whenever she saw him in those two weeks she knew, the thoughts lingered on her lips, telling her that it needed to be done, but they disappeared quickly when she went to open her mouth. When he volunteered himself to make the final stand to protect the clan, she no longer had any intention of telling him. It was also selfish. She wanted to punish him for abandoning her, for leaving her to rot in the prison they created, to let him die and go into the Beyond without knowing. 

Bida’s words came back to her then, and she was haunted all night by them. Spoiled. Insufferable. Arrogant. When he kissed her and tried his best to love her while he still had time, the words became deafening, as if her mind was screaming them. She tried to drown them out, but they would not leave.

In those dark hours when they greedily wrapped their limbs together, she knew hiding it from him was wrong. Blaming him for it was wrong. Continually forcing him to support her was wrong. She had been cruel in her selfishness, and his devotion and love deserved so much more.

When she finally found the courage to tell him, it was because he deserved to know. Not for anything else.

“There’s going to be a child,” she said calmly. 

He didn’t stop kissing her jaw, and instead, only sleepily said, “What do you mean? Whose child?”

“Ours,” she replied. His lips halted in their ministrations, and his fingers dug into her skin unconsciously.

“What?” his voice was unbelieving. She didn’t blame him; part of her didn’t want to believe either. Elain sighed, and sat up on the cot, pulling her knees tightly to her chest.

“I’m three and a half months pregnant. There will be a child by Bloomingtide. It’s yours.”

“Of course it’s mine!” he nearly yelled as he sat up next to her. She winced at his anger. “How long have you known?”

“Since Den got injured,” she said quietly. 

“Bullshit Elain! You knew before two weeks ago. Nothing happens without you knowing it!” his voice rose and he waved his hand in the air wildly. 

“I didn’t, I swear!” she argued, “I’ve been so busy that I lost track of time. I didn’t notice anything off until Den was hurt.”

“Then why are you just telling me now? You’ve known for two weeks. You’ve known all fucking night! Are you trying to punish me for not wanting to obey your stupid demands?” he was yelling now, and she tried to touch his chest to calm him, but he pulled away violently. 

She wanted to lie to him, to give him what he needed to hear to resolve this. It was would be easier on both of them. But the truth was more important now. There would be pain no matter what.

“I didn’t have a chance to talk with you alone since I found out,” she started, “And I was so angry tonight; I resented that you were making a decision without me. A decision that left me behind. We’ve been working together since we were still apprentices, and for the first time, you were leaving me to face something alone.”

“You faced the mountains during your Trials alone. You came out on top of that,” he pointed out bitterly, “You do more than fine alone, Elain.”

“It’s not the same and you know it!” she snapped, “I knew I would survive my isolation. I knew! And I left with you knowing that as well.”

“You still hid this from me,” he was glaring at her, his face hard.

“I know. It was wrong, and I regret it. But I can’t change that now; I can only…” she paused when she realized her eyes were filling with tears again, “I can only tell you the truth, and the truth is that I have done stupid, selfish things -- things that have hurt you -- so that I won’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” he said determinedly, laying back down on the pillows of her cot, “I can’t die now. I have a child to think about.”

“You’re going to stay?” she was bewildered by his sudden change of heart.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly, “I told you; I’m done hiding behind your Mantle. I’ve been loyal and devoted to you since before you became Maiden, and this is my reward. Punishment for doing what’s right. I would’ve died without knowing. So, I just won’t let myself die. Who knows what else you could be hiding from me.”

The tears flowed again freely, and she felt her guilt eating away at her heart keenly, “There have never been secrets we didn’t share, and I made the worst possible thing the first one. I’m sorry, Revas. For everything. You deserved better.”

She buried her face in her hands and wept, knowing that Bida was right; she had sown this. She had created this. This was all her fault, and no one else’s. She would lose Revas, lose her title, lose her life, and there was no one to blame but herself. 

“Dammit Elain,” he groaned, “Why did you do this? It’s so selfish.”

“I don’t know,” she cried, her sobs wracking her body. 

Revas reached up and tugged on her arm lightly, pulling her down to him. He brought her to his chest, and she laid her head down there and spent her tears. Another gesture she didn’t deserve.

“Shhh, Peach,” he said as he stroked her head, “You know I hate to see you cry.”

“I know,” she said with a hiccup.

“You did tell me, even if it was later than you should have. That’s the most important part, I guess,” he sighed with resignation, “We really fucked this up.”

“We did,” she agreed as she wiped the tears from her face.

“How did this even happen? You’ve always been so careful,” he asked her.

“I don’t know. Maybe the batch of witherstalk wasn’t efficacious or maybe I had forgotten in the chaos of everything happening,” she guessed, “It’s too late to go back now though.”

“What are we going to do?”

She her fingers trace over his scar he earned in Autini all those years ago saving her life, “I don’t know. Assuming you live, we tell the clan and wait for our punishment. If you don’t, it’s safe to say that the rest of us won’t either, and all of this doesn’t matter.”

“Then I’ll make sure we live. I won’t leave you to do this by yourself,” he stated. She almost believed him.

“I’ll pray for it. I don’t want to do this without you,” she said, before lifting her head and laying it in the crook of his shoulder.

“If you don’t make it though…” her voice caught in her throat, but she needed to tell him. She finally found the words, “...I’ll make sure our child knows you were a good man.”

He lifted her chin up gently and leaned down to give her a tender kiss. There was no heat, no passion behind it. Just a small gesture of gratitude.

“Thank you.”

They fell asleep a few short hours before dawn with fear and pain in their hearts. He had promised her he would live, and she had promised him that everything would be fine if he did. Neither one truly believed the words. 

\-----

The dawn arrived so quickly over the valley, it nearly took Revas’ breath away. The sun’s first rays lit the tops of the tall conifer trees, making the snow and ice clinging to them glimmer. The air was cold and made puffs of frost form in front of his mouth, but even that had its own beauty. The world reacting to him, for him. As if it was created to do so. It made letting go all the more difficult.

The hunters stood in a quiet formation, a tension hanging over them like the strings of their bows; taut, rigid, and dangerous. Their families stood opposite, tears streaming down their faces, but mostly tight-lipped and brave. The sacrifice was not to be taken lightly, and the clan had come together admirably to see them off. 

His mother had wailed and cried, his friends who were staying behind looked awkwardly at the ground, and even Vhannas couldn’t meet his eye. They knew they were speaking to corpses who still walked. But Revas was determined to pull out of this alive. The forces were overwhelming, the odds were low, but he didn’t want to leave his kid without a father. He knew what it was like, and didn’t want Elain to have to endure it. He didn’t think she could.

His kid. It didn’t seem real to him. It was almost as if he was standing in a cloud, watching the events unfold, but completely disattached. There was going to be a child, his child, their child. He was going to fight an impossible battle and probably die. He would never see his Maiden again. The terror he should’ve felt had disappeared, tucked away somewhere his heart couldn’t find it. It was probably for the best. He would need a clear mind to pull through this.

The crowd became silent as Keeper Deshanna and Elain finally approached the waiting hunters. The ceremony was thrown together quickly, but even when facing annihilation, some traditions must be preserved. Elain wore the Mantle and full armor, the authority of her title preserved in the regalia, but her swollen eyes spoke of a sleepless night and unspoken fears. Unspoken to everyone but Revas.

“Children of Andruil!” Elain called to them, “It’s time.”

“I do not let you leave without your Warlord or Maiden lightly. Den would be beside himself, and my heart is heavy with loss. Lavellan has always found strength in our hunters and their bond with our Great Huntress, Blessed be Her Name.”

“ _Blessed be Her Name_ ,” the hunters, Revas included, called back. 

“But today, many of you will meet a fate you do not deserve. One that is below the glory you have brought this clan. And the pride you have brought me. Without you, the Maiden and the Warlord and the Keeper and the Craftmaster and every other title in this clan would be worthless. You are why we will live to see another day. You are why we will continue to grow and prosper. Why our children will become hunters and then their children will become hunters after them. You are…”

She began to choke up, leaving some whispered gasps among the gathered crowd.

“You are what makes Lavellan what it is and what it will be. You are the spark that lights the fire, the tip of the arrow that makes the kill. You have long understood the role of sacrifice that Andruil requires, and you have always rose to meet the challenge. You are the best the world has to offer, and your heroic efforts today will be sung about for many generations; not just amongst Lavellan, but among all the Dalish. When the humans thought to destroy us again, you stemmed the purging, and stood where others would have run. You are the last Elvhen.”

“ _Never again shall we submit!_ ” the age old motto rang across the forest, and it lifted his heart to hear it. 

She had done well. He was proud.

Deshanna stepped forward with the heavy golden bowl, reserved only for the most sacred rites, and held it still while Elain dipped her hand inside. The blood of a freshly slaughtered hare dripped off her fingertips. Revas took his bow and quiver off his shoulder,and knelt down on the ground, raising his weapons high in his hands.

_As we love life and hate death, guide us peacefully when we are lost to violent hands_ , Deshanna sang, her voice clear and bright on the morning. Elain’s bloodied hands touched the tips of each of his arrows.

_Cast the Long Shadow over us, but do not leave us in the darkness of decay._

The fingers drew more blood from the bowl and spread the sticky fluid on the shaft of the arrows now.

_Reunite us with those long gone, whose memories are all too vague._

The fingers drew over the curve of his bow in reverence, pausing at the words she had carved in herself so many years ago.

_Show us the golden fields of Your Promised Lands where we may be at peace._

Her delicate hands spread the holy blood over his vallaslin, some of the warm liquid falling down his cheeks and dripping off his jaw. He stood up before her, now blessed.

_Guide us Falon’din, to the places we cannot see but wish to._ Keeper Deshanna finished the parting song, crying quietly, her cheeks soaked in her sorrow.

“Andruil Enaste, Banal’ras. May you lead our hunters to victory or may Falon’din lead you to a peaceful death,” Elain said firmly, but her chin quivered as she did so. 

They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and in that short time, he did his best to memorize her face. He wanted to remember it, to burn it in his mind, so that if he did die, he could conjure up every detail in full clarity. But it wasn’t enough to just see her. He needed more. An impulse came over him that would make her hate him, but he didn’t care.

Revas grabbed the back of her head and pulled her into a kiss, the best he could muster in the moment. She was tense at first, but quickly melted into it, her own lips opening to let him in. He was surprised by her willingness, but not ungrateful. This is all he had ever wanted with her; to be able to kiss her freely and love her as loudly as he wanted, with no repercussions. She brought her arms around his neck and he grabbed her waist and pulled her against him in return. Revas was elated that neither of them could bother to care in the moment.

There were whispers and murmurs and outright cries of disapproval, but he didn’t care about that either. She was his Maiden, his Peach, and he needed her to know where his last thoughts would be. 

He broke away from her before he gave it all up and begged to stay, and when he did, she whimpered softly. Their eyes met once more -- hers filled with tears again -- and he turned and walked away, motioning for the hunters to follow. There were laughs and grumbles, but they knew their duty, and followed him onto the path that would lead to the river. His display may even provide a welcome distraction from the fate they went to face.

Revas did not look back to see her one more time. If he did, it meant that he didn’t intend to return. Instead, he gave marching orders to the hunters, and prepared himself for the fight of his life. He would come back alive. There was no other option.


	12. Loom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een confronts her fear and earns loss in its place. Elain feels inevitability stalking her.

_Ah, the would-be little Keeper turned religious icon. What would Paeris think of you helping humans while The People fight for their lives?_

Sar’een learned very early in her training that demons couldn’t be trusted. They would corrupt vulnerable mages and use their bodies as hosts for their malicious intent. Dalish mages did not undergo Harrowings like Circle Mages did, but Paeris was not lax in passing his knowledge of the malevolent spirits in the Beyond. Demons of rage and hunger were animalistic and petty in their needs. Demons of desire were generous with their offers. Pride demons were clever and intelligent, and could read the heart of the mage better than any other. They were the most dangerous.

But from where she was standing, fear demons were the by far the worst.

It’s taunts and mocking tone grated on her, and all the minions it sent to stop her progression to the rift wore her down. What bothered her the most was that it knew just what to say to make her doubt herself. Was everything she had done so far a waste? Was she only helping the humans while her own people still struggled? Was stopping a demon army really something she should be handling? Why not Cassandra? Or Vivienne? Or Leliana? Or even Cullen? All of them were more qualified than her to figure this out. 

“Hold it together, Boss!” the Iron Bull called to her, “We’re almost out of this!”

Sar’een cut down the spider that skittered in front of her with her spirit blade, slicing it right in two. The blood and guts that exploded from the abdomen were all too real, and the black tar they turned into that boiled on the ground and sent the smell of sulphur to her nostrils was real too. This was not like a normal nightmare in the Fade, where everything was abstract and shifting. There was nothing to wake up from. 

They were walking in the Fade, the Black City hovering over them, as always; a feat that had not been done since the original Magisters corrupted it, according to Chantry lore.

“We have to keep moving. The rift is not far ahead,” Solas panted next to her. 

She nodded, and began to run up the slick, oily path. The Divine -- or the spirit of the Divine or just a spirit or something else she didn’t even want to comprehend -- glowed brightly on the dark path that led to the rift that would take them out of this nightmare landscape. There was something oppressive about the air, about how everything was wet and slimy, about the architecture that didn’t look quite right. It was as if a dark god had created this place to steer the living away and harbor only the most ephemeral beings. It reminded her of the tales of Dirthamen’s City of Secrets. 

“Once you are through the rift, you must seal it with your anchor, as hard as you can, so the demon cannot get through!” the apparition told her as they ran through a narrowing tunnel, dripping with the oily water. Sar’een tried to focus on the path ahead, instead of the viscous fluid of the Fade clinging to her skin and hair.

“I’ll try my best!” she shouted to the apparition.

“You must try even harder. The demon cannot be allowed into the waking world,” the apparition warned. 

“No shit!” Bull said loudly. 

“Will everyone just shut it? Can’t focus on my arrows with all this talky stuff!” Sera cut in, her voice still shaking in fear.

“Look!” Hawke said, stopping as they reached an end of the narrow tunnel. The group did look, and saw more than they bargained for.

Sar’een couldn’t be sure what everyone else saw, but to her, a humongous spider -- eyes twitching, mandibles opening, hairy legs flexing -- stood between her team and freedom from this place. Not even the sylvans that traumatized her as a child could come close to the size and ferocity of this creature. The clutching branches and death-cold touch of the sylvans came back to her in a rush though, and her entire body froze. The air in her lungs seemed trapped there, and her panic setting in was overwhelming.

But the apparition did not hesitate, and began to approach the monster, “Goodbye Inquisitor. If you would, please tell Leliana that I failed her too.”

Crackling energy leaving the ethereal body of the apparition forced itself out and onto the arachnid demon, causing it to spread over the towering form and pushed it back. The energetic light grew and grew, until the apparition was nothing more than the light overtaking the pulpy, oily limbs of the demon and pressing it away from her and her waiting team. It should have inspired Sar’een in its spectacle -- all light and destruction, good versus evil -- but her fear froze her blood and even witnessing her favorite elements of stories play out before her eyes wouldn’t unthaw it.

But there was still a fight to be won. The demon that stood under the monstrous spider still blocked them from their escape, and had no intention of letting them leave. It was much smaller than its partner, but no less menacing. It’s sinister face and wretched limbs growing out of its back still towered over her much smaller form. As its form shifted in and out of the tangible reality of the Fade when it approached her, the last thing in the world she felt she could do was lift her arm against it. 

“I...I can’t,” her legs shook in terror, “I can’t!” 

Tears flowed freely down her face, and her inner ears throbbed in pain as the fear demon let out a shrieking wail. It’s jaw seemed to unhinge as it did so, and there was no throat no tongue. Just an empty void that Sar’een could feel. A place that wasn’t the world she came from, and wasn’t the Fade either. Some place in between where death and cold and blackness dwelled.

She was jolted as comforting arms fell on her shoulders.

“You can do this, lethallan! This demon feeds off your fear, but you are stronger!” Solas told her, his voice full of the confidence she did not have, “Concentrate on your own power, your own magic. It will ground you.”

He let go of her abruptly and cast barriers on their party. The fight was imminent.

“C’mon Boss, we need you to pull us through this,” Bull said as he began to run towards the powerful entity blocking their way, “I don’t want to smash this thing by myself!”

“Ass, ass, ass,” Sera muttered as she began to unleash arrow after arrow into the demon, “Shite. Piss. Shiiiiiiiite. PISS!”

“Not much of a choice here, Inquisitor! Either we fight or we get stuck here!” Hawke yelled behind him as he and Warden Loghain joined the fight. 

Sar’een took deep, fast breaths. She had no choice but to fight, despite her fear. And she wouldn’t let her friends do this themselves. She focused on the swell of magic that always touched her, and focused on that. The fear demon’s was strong, but she wasn’t alone in this. The magic thrummed and ebbed around her, and with one last breath, she stilled her inner doubts. 

The magic propelled her towards the demon at lightning speed, her body becoming as non-corporeal as the demon’s could. It made her feel light and invincible for the few short heartbeats that she closed the distance between herself and the demon, but as she became more rooted in physical form, it felt heavy and vulnerable. The rushing surge of positive energy flowed over her as she felt another barrier go up from Solas’ efforts, and she knew it was now or never.

Her spirit blade slashed across the creature’s concave abdomen, making it squeal and pull away from her. She had hurt it. She had _hurt_ it! With renewed purpose she slashed at it again and again, making Iron Bull laugh at her zeal. Sweat formed on her brow as she slashed away and faded in and out of the corporeal world when the demon tried to grab her with it’s sharp, oily claws. _Focus, focus, focus. Approach this fight as a warrior, not a mage_ , she told herself. _This creature has more power over it’s magic, but your arm will be stronger._

The demon became more and erratic and desperate in the fight as it felt the brunt force of Bull, the stinging arrows of Sera, and the electric storm trapping it that Solas had cast. The blueish glow of the electricity reflected off the slimy skin but Sar’een was no longer afraid. She pummeled it with blows. No demon would make her afraid again. 

It’s whole body spasmed and it screamed in agony as it died, it’s form turning to blackened ash and wafting away, as if it were dust in a breeze. She stared in disbelief for a moment. 

She had overcome fear. 

She had beaten it.

It had nearly crippled her for so long...the nightmares, the phantom tree limbs always grasping her, the ice that always seemed to linger on her skin. But she faced the demon that embodied it, consumed it, and she had won. Had she been anywhere else but the Fade, she would’ve shouted in joy.

“Come on, we have to get out of here!” Iron Bull snapped her back to the present as he called to her. The team was running towards the Veil tear, jumping through the rift, and she needed to go as well. 

She began to make her way there, but she was stopped. The giant spider was not as dead as she hoped, and now resumed its role as gatekeeper to her way out, it's giant carapace looming over her in hunger. That familiar fear came back, but she wouldn’t let it control her again. She wanted to face this monster, kill it for good, but, she knew it wasn’t a winning prospect. If the apparition of Divine Justinia couldn’t defeat it, she doubted she could. 

There was no way through, and she drew her spirit blade fully intending to go down trying to make a way. 

“Go! Get out of here! I’ll distract it!” Hawke called from behind her. She turned and saw him running at full speed towards the beast. 

“No!” she yelled, “I won’t leave anyone behind!”

But it was too late. He engaged the monster with reckless abandon -- so like the Champion Varric described -- and for his efforts, he was rewarded by gaining the spider’s full attention. She moved to go help him, but a strong arm gripped her own.

“Don’t make his sacrifice go to waste, Inquisitor,” Loghain said as he dragged her towards the rift. 

“We can’t just leave him!” she fought to pull his grip off of her.

“You can’t die here. There’s still Corypheus to defeat,” he only held on tighter as he pulled her as he ran to their exit.

“No no no no!” she screamed as saw Hawke get overwhelmed by the monster. 

“This isn’t a battle we can win. We can only try to do right by him,” Loghain said sadly when they approached the rift. It wasn’t right. She knew it wasn’t right. But there was little choice. Tears burned her eyes and she nodded, but regret already feasted on her heart.

They jumped through the rift, leaving behind a hero, a Champion, and as she sealed it behind her, Sar’een couldn’t stop her sobs. It wasn't right. And it was all her fault.

\----

The waiting had been the most difficult part. 

It was nightfall and the clan had to stop moving to rest for a short while. The herd was overworked and not used to the mountain paths. Progress had been slow, with wind and ice making it nearly impossible to navigate the treacherous paths. They had already lost three halla to injuries, and they risked losing much more without taking time to allow them rest to recover.

The trip had been difficult on the elderly and the sick, as Elain knew it would be, and the suffocating darkness that spread over the valley as the sun set was symbolic of the swift wings of death that would fall on the most vulnerable members of the clan. There was no preventing it. Lavellan would lose non-combatants and hunters alike in this mess. They would not come out of it unscathed and unscarred. 

Elain was perched on the edge of an aravel, staring intensely into the dark night. She could almost convince herself she could see the river where the hunters were making their last stand, but the fluttering movements were merely the tops of the trees swaying in the cold wind. Nothing more. The pervasive nausea returned as she sat watching; she had foolishly thought that telling someone of her condition would make it disappear, and that now that it was known, she wouldn’t have to suffer through the side effects. Her aching back and the bile always sitting in her throat told her otherwise.

She dreaded what other horrors this child would bring. 

“There you are.”

Sorn limped towards her hiding spot, his head and body covered in thick furs, and his teeth chattering. He must have been spending time away from the hearth. His limp wasn’t that bad unless his joints got cold. Elain acknowledged his presence with a nod.

“There’s a lot of talk tonight at camp,” he said as he leaned against the side of the aravel, “Talk of the chances of survival, of whether or not our hunters will survive.”

“They’re afraid,” Elain responded absently, “Talking about it helps ease the fear. It’s harmless.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty harmless,” he said, “But some of the other talks aren’t. A lot of people are angry at Revas’ display this morning.”

She sighed loudly, “I suppose you’re one of them, and that’s why you’re here?”

“I’m more concerned than angry. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do in front of the whole clan, and a lot of it would’ve been written off as Revas being brash, as usual. But you definitely kissed him back,” he pointed out to her.

“I’m aware,” she responded dully. Elain was in no mood for a lecture from her friend, even if he did have good intentions. She didn’t want to hear it now.

“And for someone who is celibate, that was a very passionate kiss,” the accusation in his voice was clear. 

There was no point in denying it anymore. If they lived, there would be no hiding the manner of their relationship in a few weeks. It was beyond her control. Of course, that was what bothered Elain the most. All of this was beyond her grasp, far from her planning. Though she wanted to, she could not stop her body from changing. Rumors would turn into confirmed fact, and it would be best if she gained some semblance of an upper hand over the situation. Let her be the one who decides when and where it is all revealed. Let her decide what it will mean.

“What do you want from me, Sorn? Stop dancing around and just say it,” she stated. 

Sorn sighed deeply and looked at his feet before he spoke, “It’s no secret how Revas feels about you. Every hunter who has ever worked with him knows he’s ridiculously in love. He can’t hide his emotions, you know that.”

“I do.”

“I’ve told him so many times it was useless; back from before you were even Maiden. But the bigger the challenge, the more interested he is,” her friend continued as he idly kicked tufts of snow with his foot, “I always assumed that your disinterest and dedication to your duty meant it was unrequited. Revas isn’t the only idiot to fall for you, after all. Do you remember Llyn’s crush?”

She snorted, “Yeah. He wanted me to give up my trials for him. _‘I can make you happy! Happier than you could ever be wearing the Mantle!’_ You and Revas chased him up a tree.”

“Llyn always was so dramatic. At least Revas knew not to try to talk you out of it. Then again, he had the fact that you two grew up together working for him. He knows better than anyone how hard it is to get you to change your mind,” Sorn teased her, and a wisp of a smile graced her lips, “But you’ve been Maiden for a long time now. And he’s been your Shadow for a long time now. Maybe something did change your mind?”

She felt it coming, but she felt sick at the thought of confirming what Sorn probably already knew. The facade had been kept up for so long, the secret carefully guarded for years. It seemed a waste to throw it away now. It was inevitable, she knew, but letting go was difficult.

“Nothing changed my mind,” she started, “You know I would never give up the Mantle.”

“And yet, that kiss tells another story.”

“Yes, it does,” she finally admitted, “One that could take the Mantle from me, whether I want to give it up or not.” The understanding passed over his face immediately, and his look of curiosity turned to concern. 

“How long?” he asked. 

She inhaled deeply, sucking in the frigid air into her lungs. It helped soothe her stomach, but not her nerves. She was going to give voice to something she’s harbored for over a decade.

“Since the summer Revas got his vallaslin,” the words came softly, but she knew Sorn heard them. His silence spoke volumes. 

The wind picked up and blew a swirl of icy snow in the air, biting at her face and making her eyes water. Elain waited patiently for her friend from her childhood to say something -- to yell, to lecture, anything -- but he continued to stare at the ground, flicking the piles of snow under his foot. It dawned on her that he was hurt, and she wished with all her heart that she could’ve taken it back.

“Sorn, I’m sorry,” she said gently, “We made a mistake.”

“Thirteen years isn’t a ‘mistake’, Elain,” he said bitterly, “I can’t believe this. You never told me!”

“How was I supposed to tell you? You know how much becoming Maiden meant to me.”

“I’m your friend! I’m Revas’ cousin! You didn’t think you could trust me with this?” his voice wavered, “You’ve come to me for advice on the hunters that you couldn’t get from anyone else since your ascension. You trusted me with that, but this is too much?”

“If you knew, you could be implicated if it was ever discovered. This isn’t some silly affair that causes a little drama among the hunters. I couldn’t chance anyone being exiled, or worse. It’s not a game,” she explained to him. 

“And yet, here you are, thirteen years later,” he said coldly, “Still rolling the dice, hoping it doesn’t land on your number. Do you even care about Revas?”

She hopped down from the aravel, knowing the conversation would only end one way. The whole affair had been wrong, but she would not let him question her feelings.

“More than anything,” she said as she leaned next to him against the aravel, “Your concern for him is endearing but unfounded. I’ve risked everything because I don’t want to be without him.”

Sorn chewed on his lip thoughtfully, his brow furrowed, “You let him go fight knowing he’ll probably die.”

“I didn’t have a choice. He made the decision without me,” she confessed, “Believe me, I tried to stop him.”

He brought his hand to his face and was quiet for a moment; processing what she had burdened him with, no doubt. 

“It was wrong of us not to tell you,” she assured him, “But I made Revas promise. If you have to blame anyone, let it fall on me.”

“Trust me, I do,” he said, “If you say jump, Revas will wait for you to tell him how high. Nothing happens without you knowing it. I believe that you didn’t want him to hold the line against the shems, but now I’m glad he did. At least he got to have that freedom before he died.”

It hit her like a punch in the gut, and the worry that churned her stomach now threatened to escape into her throat. Her hands trembled against the aravel, and the Maiden who wouldn’t stand for such an accusation seemed to disappear in the moment she needed her. The words bit and gnawed on her, like those damnable maggots, and she wished she had gone to fight instead of Revas. At least she’d have an honorable end then. Sorn’s painful words would only be the first of many thrown her way once the truth came out.

“Sorn, there's nothing I can say. I never intended anyone to get hurt.”

"Of course you didn't," he said, his voice dropping, "But they always do around you. The world is Elain's for the taking, and we're all just pawns to be used. Damn the consequences."

She said nothing. There was nothing she could say. He was right. 

"And there will be consequences," he said ominously, "Have no doubt about that. I hear and see things from the elders and Council that they wouldn't dare say around Twig or Llyn or any of your other spies. I can't hunt anymore, so what good am I? But I listen to every word misspoken word and you are walking very thin ice. If the hunters succeed, they won't forget."

"I know," she said, "Sorn, I--"

Elain was interrupted by the screech of a bird. It was loud and resonated against the desolate peaks of the Vimmarks. The screech came again, and she recognized the originator. 

An eagle.

Sorn realized it at the same time and looked at her in shock, “The Diceni.”

She nodded before taking off in a sprint, knowing he couldn’t keep up with his bad leg. That didn’t matter now. If the Diceni were here, there was still time, still a chance Revas and the hunters could be saved. She ran into the main camp, panting, searching, eyes darting among the elves milling about the great hearth. Her eyes fell on Keeper Deshanna, hovering over two of the sick children, and waved her arm wildly to get her attention. Deshanna said something to the children before rising to meet Elain. The concern was written all over her face.

“Sorn and I heard an eagle call outside of camp. Have any Ethinan reported?”

Deshanna shook her head, “No, not that I know of. They’ve been scattered without Llyn to give them better direction. Why, what is the---”

The concern was replaced by a dawning realization, “We have to talk to Den.”

She grabbed Elain’s arm and they quickly moved towards the small yurt that had been erected for him. She hoped Den was lucid right now. The Warlord had been in and out of consciousness since his injury, remembering very little and often losing track of his own words during conversations. If he was lucid, he would know what to do. Otherwise, it would be up to her. And in the moment, Elain didn’t trust her judgment. 

They pulled back the wicker hanging of his yurt and saw him sitting on the cot inside, chatting happily with Sohta. Elain sighed a breath of relief that he was up and awake. She didn’t want to face this alone.

“Thank Andruil you’re up,” Deshanna breathed in relief, “We need you.”

“Need me, huh?” he pulled his legs over to the side of the cot, having to lift each one by hand as Sohta placed a placating hand on his shoulder, “Did someone finally get it in their head to use me as a table, since I’m just sitting around here anyways?”

His words were slurred and came slowly, but he was up, and that’s all that mattered. Just as Elain was preparing to explain, one of the Ethinan burst through the entrance of the yurt, out of breath and panting. 

“What’s going on?” Den’s self-depreciation lifted immediately, and his role of Warlord was not forgotten, despite his current condition.

“Dalish spotted. Not ours. The Diceni are here,” the scout reported, gasping for air. 

“What are they doing here? They should be in the field helping our hunters!” Elain snapped at him. 

“The Hand of Vengeance is requesting audience,” the scout said, “I couldn’t find the Keeper so I brought him here. He’s outside.”

“Well bring him in, you idiot!” Den ordered him. The scout rushed back outside, and soft words were heard in the silence that settled over the yurt.

The scout did not return, but someone Elain recognized did. The Hand of Vengeance. A scion like her, dedicated to the Diceni's patron god, Elgar’nan. A warrior unlike any other among the Dalish, dangerous and disciplined beyond any normal hunter. He was tall and lean, his topknot worn high and proud, the ornament of The Sun jutting out as decoration. He was in his full armor, clearly ready to fight, and she knew his magic could easily turn the tide of the battle, if only he would join Lavellan’s ranks.

“Aneth’ail. So good to see you again,” Elain said curtly. 

Aneth made a short bow, “And you as well, Maiden. I wish our meeting was under better circumstances.”

“As do I,” she responded as she cocked her eyebrow, “Do explain...why are you here in our camp when our request for aid was for our hunters? Surely you know they are holding the river.”

“I apologize,” he bowed his only his head this time, “My father insisted we come here first.”

“Why?” Den cut in.

“Warlord Threlen wants Lavellan’s permission to hunt.”

The silence returned, and it was so thick, Elain could almost see it. They all knew what it meant to allow Threlen in. There would be no ridding the Diceni now if they agreed. Their aid came with a heavy price. 

“By Mythal’s tits, yes! Get out there and help our hunters! For fuck’s sake,” Den yelled. The decision was easy for him, and Elain silently thanked the Lady of the Hunt for him being there and awake.

The Hand bowed one more time, and then left swiftly. Den knew the price. Deshanna knew the price, Elain knew the price. They all were willing to pay for their own reasons. But she still hugged her arms close to her body and stared down at her abdomen as the rest talked about their lack of choice. 

Paeris’ shadow no longer loomed; there would be no stopping him. His presence would be felt in a very real way soon enough, and Elain could almost feel his greedy breath on her neck.


	13. Guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death haunts Sar'een and the hunters of Clan Lavellan

Varric had already known when she arrived back at Skyhold. 

Sar’een didn’t believe the death of a Champion would be kept secret. Whispered words and callous rumors always floated on the wings of Deceit, as Paeris would tell her, and the loss of Hawke in the Fade had flown across the expanse of Orlais to reach Skyhold before she could. It left a bitter taste in her mouth when she finally did get to talk to him.

She had hoped she could’ve been the one to tell Varric his best friend was gone. It was her responsibility, after all. When someone was lost to the clan back home, it was always a Keeper’s job let their immediate family know. It was the one place she felt Deshanna always excelled over Paeris. She was always so empathetic to the clan’s needs, and she always seemed to have the right words. _It is a loss for us all, lethallin,_ she would probably tell Varric. _Champions are rarer than any metal, any precious stone._ The world is less without him. If he were Dalish, she would tell him of the comfort death brings since souls are eternal and are meant for greater things in the Beyond. 

Deshanna would have the right words. Sar’een didn’t. She still tried, nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry, Varric,” she said to him solemnly as he stood in front of the great hearth at the end of the hall, “I tried to stay with him, but I couldn’t. If the nightmare was able to get through...”

“You know, it always was like Hawke to take the hero’s way out,” Varric stopped her, his voice gentle and measured, “Never could just say ‘let someone else handle it’. Everyone’s problem was his problem. I never understood it myself, but Kirkwall always seemed a better place because of it. Did I ever tell you about the time Carta came calling after Gamlen?”

Sar’een sat in the chair next to his, balling her hands under her chin, “No, but I’d like to hear it.”

He nodded and continued, “Dear old Uncle got tangled up in another get-rich-quick scheme; this time, with smuggled goods that he’d buy for cheap than sell at a higher price. Thought he’d become some kind of honest merchant, or something. But the Merchant’s Guild has a lockdown on the trade in the city -- even with the humans -- and he was just buying into a pipe dream. Of course, Gamlen didn’t have any coin for the goods upfront, so he took out a loan with the Carta.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, well on her way to understanding how cutthroat the Carta could be, according to his stories.

“And that’s a normal reaction that most people have,” he said lightly, a smile hovering just at the corner of his lips, “But Gamlen isn’t exactly a normal guy. So he borrows from the Carta, buys the smuggled goods, then tries to off load them. Finds out the hard way that Merchant’s Guild shoves out competitors very aggressively, and can’t find buyers for silk dresses at a decent price in Lowtown. Interest on that loan starts to pile up, and he’s got nothing to show for it. When Carta comes a’ knocking, Gamlen doesn’t even have a copper to his name.”

“Did they break his legs?” she asked a little more excitedly than she intended. Her cheeks reddened in embarrassment. 

Varric gave her a little chuckle, “No, but they did find out that Gamlen had family living in Hightown who had some money.”

“Hawke,” she surmised.

“The one and only. The Carta came around the Amell manor one night; a big, scary looking group. But Hawke just let them right inside and asked if they wanted to play a card game. They didn’t know what to do with themselves, so they just...joined the game,” Varric took a pause, “Afterwards, the debt was forgotten and a group of them ended up coming by for weekly games of Wicked Grace. I lost a lot of money to those bastards, but Hawke always took it with a grin and a wink. He just had that effect on people. He was everyone’s friend, everyone’s brother. He wanted to see the best in everyone, even the worst of us. He…”

Varric faltered, his voice caught, and Sar’een had her arms wrapped around him in a hug before she had a chance to think about it. He squeezed her waist tightly for a moment, then let her go when the moment passed. The tears had sprung to her eyes, but she fought them back for her friend’s sake.

“Hawke knew what it meant to be alone. And he never wanted that for anyone. As long as he was around, you knew you were home.”

“He sounds like he was so much more than just the Champion,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” was all he could say. He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet, “Look, I uh, I have some letters to write. Daisy should know about this…”

“Of course,” she said, and left him to his work. Sar’een understood that he needed space now, and let him go, knowing any more words would be insufficient. They all seemed insufficient. 

She made her way to her private quarters, needing her own time to be alone, to breathe. It was cold inside, the fires burning low and the balcony doors wide open, but she didn’t mind. It reminded her of home. Varric’s story about Hawke was touching, but selfishly, it made her think of all she had left behind. She had tried her best to help a friend, and now, all she could think of was so many more people back in the clan could’ve done it better. It pained her how much she missed them all. The time that had passed between the Conclave and now seemed like forever, and she tried to picture her friend’s faces. They were fuzzy and unclear, like looking at them from underwater. 

As she sat at her desk, she realized she still hadn’t received word on the mission to aid them against the human raiders. It had only been a few weeks, enough time for her to travel to the Western Approach and back, but the Free Marches were much further away. She didn’t want to assume the worst; handling more loss right now would be impossible. 

Try as she might, the trivial reports in front of her on her desk couldn’t hold her attention, and her thoughts wandered to the family she hadn’t seen in a year. Did they still think about her? Had anything changed while she was gone? Or was she really as inconsequential to them as she seemed? The homesickness in her heart grew, and she knew that the work would sit and not get done. There was too much on her mind.

Indulging in her self-pity, she pulled a box out of the drawer in her desk that held all the letters her clan members had sent her since the Conclave. Sar’een had saved every one she could; reminders of home and her heritage that she could look at when she began to forget. She opened the box slowly, inhaling the scent of the Marches on the parchment, recalling summers on the plains and winters near the mountains. Life was so much easier then.

She unrolled the first note, a letter from Nellia giving her clan gossip and gushing over her husband, as usual. Another one from Keeper Deshanna, inquiring after her health and mind. Always so concerned over her. A crumpled one from her mother, asking her when she will give up this silly quest and come home. A note from Elain, written in her tiny print, impeccably formal and cold. Even that was a comfort, knowing how the Maiden was. Sar’een clutched the parchment letters to her chest and held them there, thinking maybe she could absorb her old life into her through them. 

They just left her feeling more alone. 

With a deep sigh, she placed them back in their box and stuffed it back into her drawer. Not even home could comfort her now. Whether she wanted to face it or not, she was Inquisitor, and she had a duty to perform. The world would not stop because she wanted to wallow in her pain. Paeris knew this. It’s why he’s a good Keeper. She needed to try to live up to what he and everyone else taught her. 

Sar’een smoothed out a fresh sheet of paper on her desk, and picked up her quill to begin writing a letter:

_To Merrill of Clan Sabrae, now of Kirkwall,_

_Aneth ara, lethallan. It has been a very long time since we last spoke, and I don’t know if you remember me…_

\----

The next morning, she sent Iron Bull away and skipped her training. She hadn’t done so since they started, and he was suspicious, but it was something she needed to see through. He was smart -- a spy, as he had already shown -- he would figure it out. Sar’een dug through her belongings to find anything she could use that would be equivalent of the ceremonies back home, but her clothes and implements were mostly human now. She settled on heavy woolen robes clasped with a belt from home, and hooked her bag of magical items on the leather. She gave it a pat, making sure the knock-off halla she bought in Val Royeaux was still there for good luck, and set off down to the main hall of Skyhold.

Varric was in his usual spot, mulling over breakfast and writing; his daily routine. She approached him carefully, almost losing her nerve, but it was too important to hide from. She would not let her friend mourn alone. 

“Morning Snowflake,” he looked up at her from the pile of notes in front of him, “Need something?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I need you to come with me.”

He stared up at her, a look of confusion fluttering over his face, but he shrugged his shoulders, and left the notes and breakfast behind. 

She led him outside, down the stairs leading to the main hall, past the Herald’s rest, down into the courtyard, and then under the battlements that led out of the castle courtyard. He was quiet the entire way, not questioning her, and for that, she was grateful. She didn’t think she could explain it if she tried. 

Once they crossed the bridge into the snow banks and scattered trees of the mountain path, she veered to the left and headed towards the small grove of pines nearby. The smell of their sap and needles reminded her of the Autini Valley, and she was hit with homesickness all over again. The grove was empty and quiet, and Varric shifted his weight between his legs, obviously uncomfortable.

“So are you going to tell me why you dragged me out into this wilderness at the crack of dawn?” he asked her lightly. Sar’een reached for a brittle looking branch hanging low on one of the trees.

“Sure,” she said as she tugged and twisted the branch until it came unattached to the tree itself, “I wanted to say goodbye, and I needed you here with me.”

She used the limbs of the branch to clear away the soft snow on the ground, sweeping it over the light mounds until she could see the hidden ground.

“Goodbye? Are you leaving somewhere?” he asked her incredulously. 

“No, you’re still stuck with me,” she explained as she used her hands to clear away the rest of the snow, “I need to say goodbye to Hawke.”

He shifted uncomfortably again and brought his hand to the back of his head in an anxious tick, “Uh, well…shit.”

Sar’een stood up and wiped off the snow clinging to her robe, “Don’t worry Varric. It won’t take long. And…”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “Well you were his best friend. And you would know best how to do right by him.”

“I don’t know, Inquisitor, I’m not usually good with this shit,” he started.

“It’s okay. Neither am I,” she shot him a smile, “We’ll just have to work through it.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, I guess.” He was still visibly anxious, and she understood why. But it was important he was here. 

Sar’een took the staff she had on her back and laid it on the ground she had just uncovered, “The staff is a symbol of Falon’din, the Dalish god of Death. In the Days of Our Empire, He led the People in the Beyond. Once our blood quickened, He took them to the Beyond but they no longer returned with secrets from his twin, Dirthamen. But then, Fen’harel, The Dread Wolf, locked away all the gods, and Falon’din could no longer lead them back. Our dead were lost to us forever. We bury a staff with them so that their souls may guide themselves in the Beyond.”

Varric said nothing, but stared at the ground where she set the staff. Sar’een placed the broken branch on top of the it, breathing magic into the needles as she did so, making it glow. 

“We bury a branch with our dead so they may ward off the Ravens of Fear and Deceit; the agents of the Lord of the Dark House, now locked away. With no Tongue to teach them, The Ravens stalk the souls of the Beyond.”

The quiet stood still in the bitter morning air, hanging over them like a shadow. Sar’een carefully reached into the pouch hanging from her belt. With nervous hands, she pulled out the small halla figurine that she had held onto as a reminder of her home, her life she missed so much. She turned it over in her hands, seeing parts where the stain on the wood began to wear from her constant handling. Those parts were smoother than the rest; the curving back and the crooked antlers. She pressed the figurine to her mouth gently, then placed it on top of the branch. 

Varric made a small noise of protest, but she paid him no mind. It was what she needed to do. She pulled the snow over the makeshift grave, and patted it down, making it tight and compact, ensuring the items would stay there despite the harsh winds of the mountains. Sar’een stood up over the small grave, and her friend moved to stand next to her as she looked down on it. 

_O Falon'Din_  
_Lethanavir--Friend to the Dead_  
_Guide my feet, calm my soul,_  
_Lead me to my rest._

_O Mythal_  
_Lathanavir -- Great Protector_  
_Watch over my loved ones_  
_Offer them comfort while I am gone._

_O Sylaise_  
_Lathanavir -- Warm Hearth_  
_Give my body sustenance_  
_While my journeys take me far._

_O Dirthamen_  
_Lathanavir -- Keeper of Secrets_  
_Reveal to me the unseen_  
_So I may be prepared._

_O Elgar’nan_  
_Lathanavir -- Earth Shaker_  
_Should you recreate the world in my absence_  
_Remember my bones when you build it anew._

The song was old and sacred -- one shemlen ears were not meant to hear -- but she thought that it wouldn’t matter as much since Varric was a dwarf. She refused to think of the frowns and glares she would get back home for singing the verses to honor a human. It had to be done, and it had to be her.

They didn’t share any more words, but instead turned to walk back to Skyhold. The looming presence of the ancient fortress cast a dark shadow over them as the sun rose, making the walk back even more frigid. Her teeth chattered and it seemed that the cold was like the brush of death itself, whispering against the back of her neck. She was happy she wasn’t alone.

As they crossed the bridge, Varric finally found his voice, “A Dalish funeral?”

“Yes. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t send him off properly. It was my job to protect him, and I didn’t.”

“You tried your best,” he said quietly, “Hawke would’ve appreciated that.”

“Thanks Varric,” she said softly. 

“Anytime Snowflake,” he responded as they crossed under the battlements, “So...feel any better now that it’s over?”

“No,” she told him truthfully. It still sat in her stomach like a rock, weighing her down and making her sick.

He brushed his hand against the back of his head again, still staring ahead as they entered the courtyard. 

“Yeah, me neither.”

\------------------

It had begun to snow a few hours before dusk in the Autini Valley. Big, soft flakes covered the ground in a glimmering blanket, and make the rocks jutting from the dark Minanter river seem like floating ghosts.The wind was calm but when it did pick up, made a disquieting whistle through the impenetrable winter landscape. It was eerie and comforting at the same time; silent snow masking the harsh reality of the world, a beautiful psychopomp preparing to lead these souls to the Beyond. 

Revas wasn’t ready to be led anywhere though. 

He gave the fresh snow a hard kick as he placed the sharpened stake into the ground, twisting and pushing it until it stayed put. There wasn’t much time left, and he couldn’t afford to get distracted by wandering thoughts of the inevitable. With a grunt, he grabbed another stake and shoved it into place. Two other hunters worked to keep up with him, but even they were too slow. Uncertainty was weighing them down, and he had to rectify it quickly, or else he would lose this fight. And if there was one thing he hated above everything else, it was losing.

“Arthwyn! Root! Pick up the pace... Now! Creators have mercy on you if we lose friends because you can’t pull it together,” he barked at them, and the pair scrambled to follow his orders. He had needed to be tougher than Den usually was, but their biggest enemy now wasn’t the human raiders; it was fear. If they were more afraid of him than the humans, they’d fight better.

“Revas!” Twig jogged up to him from the treeline of the surrounding forest, “I’ve got news!”

He dropped the stake he planned on driving in the ground and motioned for Arthwyn and Root to take care of it. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for Twig to follow him as he walked down to the river. 

“Go ahead,” he said as he bent over and cupped the icy water in his hands and splashed it on his face.

“Llyn and the Ethinan are set up. Word is that the soldiers are still on skiffs on the river, but the currents are getting too strong. They’ll be disembarking and marching soon.”

“How far out?” he asked as he brought more of the frigid water to his face.

“Couple of hours. They’ll be at the decoy camp after dark.” 

“Good,” he stood back up and shook his head, expelling the excess water dripping off of him, “Have them light the fires high. We want to draw them in there.”

“Don’t you think Donovan will know it’s a trap?” Twig asked.

“Maybe,” he answered him bluntly, “But we won’t know unless we try. At worst, the scouts retreat and meet the main force, just like we were planning anyways.”

“And what about the main force,” Twig looked at Arthwyn and Root packing stakes into the ground, “Are they ready?”

“They will be. The waiting is always the hardest part.”

“Yeah,” Twig affirmed, “Where do you need me?”

“Keep on the Ethinan. I want to know exactly when Llyn and his team fall back. We need the fortifications ready by then.”

“Got it,” Twig turned and jogged back away, leaving Revas alone by the river. 

The tension in the air was thick, and the electricity a hunter felt before battle surged through his veins. He was eager to shed some blood. Pulling his bow off his back, he ran his hands over the worn leather around the grip and paused over the words carved into the back: _Bend but never break._

He decided he’d like to give his child the bow, if he could. Maybe the kid’s face would light up every time he pulled it out, and appreciate it all the more when it passed down to them. He’d tell them how their mother made it for him, after he took an axe in the chest for her. It’d be romantic and exciting and the kid’s eyes would widen when he explained how his old bow broke in half, and how Revas had been broken as well. Maybe he’d let the kid know how Elain took care of him while he healed then led him to the quiet grove to give him the gift for saving her life. He wouldn’t tell his kid about how beautiful she looked that day, or about the pain of knowing he loved her when she had said she had done it all for him. Save that for when he and Elain were old and could talk about the halcyon days of their youth in whispers near the hearth. 

The fantasy helped a little. Gave him all the more to live for, made him all the more determined. He walked back to the grounds where the hunters were preparing to make their stand, and saw to making sure all the fortifications were ready. He wouldn’t leave anything to chance. Not with so much on the line.

When night fell, the hunters waited nervously in the darkness, their bows drawn, their fingers bristling against the quivers that held their arrows. The lights from the decoy camp across the river were bright, but starting to get obscured. They could easily see dark figures walking in front of the fires. It would only be a matter of time before Llyn joined their ranks.

Revas gathered the senior hunters around him closely, giving the last orders before they would have to engage.

“No fires, no torches. We have the high ground and the fortifications, but our best weapon is the fact that humans can’t see for shit in the dark. Keep the new bloods to cover, and we’ll push the skirmishers out front. Llyn is going to hold the Ethinan back for awhile in case we get a chance to flank them. Let me make the call to bring them in if we get pressed down; no premature orders. Any questions?”

Their solemn faces were silent, and he knew they understood. 

“Good. Stick to the plan and we might just walk out of here alive.”

The chances were low, but they all knew the stakes. He and the senior hunters joined the ranks of the others and stood patiently, waiting, watching. Battle loomed, and Falon’din cast the Long Shadow over them. Even if they did die, they wouldn’t do it cowering. They were the Hunters of Lavellan, and there was still some pride in that.

Melodic words found their way into the fierce-eyed group, a barely audible voice breathing the words like a prayer. The song started soft at first, but began to rise slowly as more and more hunters joined in. He couldn’t be sure where it originated, but the Hymn to the Golden Death thrummed through them with each verse, their voices raised together in harmony. The hymn was not a gentle one, not a quiet, peaceful prayer for safety. It was confronting the inevitable, and finding some joy in accepting it. 

They were ready, and Revas felt his own spirit harden when he joined in on the crescendo of their impromptu chorus.

_Din’an dirthaveran_  
_Elenfanim la elenasal_  
_Vir ghilas Bellanaris_  
_La glandival’halem_

_The Promise of Death_  
_Both our fear and our triumph_  
_We journey toward that Eternity  
_And wish for an end there_ _


	14. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan's hunters meet Captain Donovan in a hopeless battle.

It had stopped snowing. There was very little wind, and what did pick up was not the bitter frigidity they were used to in the mountains. There was a quiet that settled over the valley -- a stillness reserved for death -- and they invited it into them, let it blow it’s cold breathe in their hearts. Fear had vanished, the anxious knots in their stomachs had vanished, all doubts had vanished. The Lavellan hunters would either live or die, but they would fight no matter the outcome. Never again shall they submit.

Donovan’s forces were fast approaching, and the ambush had been planned and carefully plotted. There was no way the hunters could meet the humans in open battle; the numbers just weren’t there. But they were Dalish before anything else, and their training had prepared them for hunting animals. What were these shems anymore but the trained animals being tugged by their leash then aimed at their prey? Lavellan would know what to do with them. Andruil Herself dictated it and it was as natural to them as breathing; find the high ground, lure the prey to you, always take advantage of the environment, never meet the forces head on. The hunters knew their duty. 

Revas prayed it would be enough. 

He was no stranger to battle. There were enough raiders, enough slavers, enough smugglers wandering the wilderness of the Free Marches that stumbling over them was all too simple. Most of the time, the clan could avoid them, but some seasons made it impossible. Raids on bandit camps had always been Den’s specialty, something he and so many other hunters longed for during the off seasons. It was clean, it was quick, and it rid the world of it’s vilest scum. 

It was why they stood so rigidly, so resolute. Despite the odds, this was not foreign. Skirmish after skirmish, death after death; eventually, they became conditioned to it. It flowed through their bodies like blood, pulsing and pounding and eager to spill the guts of their enemies on the ground. Just a few more moments, and they’d be able to thank the Great Huntress for the blood shed, and feel the rapture of letting it soak the earth.

They waited, they held as still as stones, they stared at the flickering lights of the torches. They listened carefully as the voices of the soldiers across the river carried on the precious few gusts of wind. They absorbed all the words and plans and information that Donovan’s men so carelessly spilled out of their greedy mouths.

_“Aye, the way is blocked. We have to cross the river or go around. Going around will lose us a day and the knife ears will get away.”_

_“Donovan will have us push through. He’s a hard ass, that one.”_

_“Don’t like the idea of getting my new boots wet….”_

_“Can’t wait to have a shot at those savage bastards. You see what they did to Yusef? Won’t be able to walk again!”_

No signs that they expected an ambush, but they would probably be crossing the river. A wisp of hope shone inside him now just as surely as the torchlight shone on the dark waters. Revas tightened his hand around the grip on his bow. 

“Captain says move! Packs on your head, and don’t step on the rocks sticking out of the water. They’re icy and you’ll end up breaking your neck.”

There were grumbles among the ranks, but they began to wade into the shallow depths of the river. It only came up to the knees this far into winter, but it was cold enough to take a foot if they weren’t careful. The pieces were falling into place. He felt the tension in the air surrounding his friends, his family, and they were all as eager as him to see this through. Revas drew his bow, aiming for a hulking mountain of a human pushing through the dark depths of the river. Tall and sturdy, he’d be difficult to handle face-to-face. 

“Steady,” he said quietly. He heard rather than saw the front line bowmen pull their drawstrings tight. Revas’ heart raced, and his ears twitched in anticipation. 

The mountain man stepped on the nearby bank, and began to walk before his fellows followed him. Revas swallowed deeply, afraid he’d set off the trap before it was needed. He mumbled a prayer under his breath, willing the large human to wait, just wait, be patient, wait. The Lady of the Hunt heard his pleas, and he let out a breath of relief as he stopped and turned towards his fellows now approaching the bank. The first contingent was across, and they now ambled about for the next group before moving on. 

Two contingents now, and his bowstring was tense. The whispers of oaths left his throat. _Andruil, ar lasa mala ma bor’assan. Falon’din, ar lasa mala ma din’an._ The troops began to move now, their flank still crossing the water, but close enough not to fall behind. It was time.

He counted the heartbeats.

_One._

A soldier laughed loudly at another complaining over the cold. “You Antivans are so precious!”

_Two._

The mountain man stumbled a bit and Revas’ bow adjusted itself. The aim would be true, as it always was.

_Three._

“Now!” was the order, though he barely needed to voice it. As the wind left his mouth, the arrows had already left the bows and rained down on the approaching soldiers with singular purpose: Death. Death dealt and death driven, bodies collapsing on the ground in pain and sputtering coughs. The mountain of a man fell, flint and wood buried in his neck, a life extinguished, one Revas did not mourn. He would not mourn any of them. 

Their front lines had been crippled, and they scrambled to stand in formation in the ensuing chaos. Lavellan would give them no chance to recover. Just as soon as their bows could be reloaded, another attack came. The arrows fell like rain, like snow, like a storm of anarchy, making the ranks crumble quickly. A third volley was sent out, and another group were decimated, battered bodies and few corpses littered among them. The howls of pain rode on the wind, and the excitement of the hunters was palpable. 

They didn’t get off another coordinated shot before the human ranks began to reform, coming together like a clay, forming and shaping by the invisible hand of training. There were shouts from senior officers to regain formation, and the scattering chaos turned into form. The hunters fired off arrows to pick off what they could before the shields went up, but once they did, Revas called for them to wait. The aimless mercenaries turned into an angry infantry, their defensive positions set, now a veritable bulwark against any projectile weapons Lavellan may throw at them. 

Lavellan’s hunters lowered their bows and waited for further instructions. This type of ambush wasn’t new to them. None of this was new. Dead humans were nothing more than beasts now and the hunters were hungry for their pound of flesh. He waved his hand to his right, and Twig’s group melted into the darker part of the forest. His group would have to be a little more confrontational.

The last troops crossed over the river quickly, splashing loudly and shouting as they did so. Somewhere among them was Captain Donovan, likely coming up with the rear. He would no doubt be regrouping and reassessing. It would be obvious to him that his company had stumbled into an ambush, and that they were firmly in Lavellan territory. Revas also knew none of this would deter him. This Donovan had been relentless in his pursuit.

“Wait for my signal,” he instructed the waiting hunters in his group, “Then make a show out of taking them down. We want their attention and fire drawn on the west so Twig and Llyn can get in place. While we bring them further into the treeline, they’ll be able to flank them.”

“What if they don’t fall for it?” Arthwyn asked. He was not the most skilled hunter, and his voice betrayed his nervousness. Even in the dark, Revas could see his heavily scarred face frowning. 

“We make them fall for it. Draw them in by any means necessary. Everything hinges on that. Do you understand?”

Arthwyn and two hunters behind him nodded. 

“Good. Now follow my lead,” he ordered before moving swiftly down towards the now organized human company. 

He’d be giving up high ground, and he couldn’t be sure it was the right decision. It’d be easier for the hunters to gain it back, but that was assuming they would have the opportunity. It was a risk, but they stood to wipe out a large chunk of the soldiers if they succeeded. Revas didn’t make the choice lightly. He knew it meant seeing the faces of some of these hunters for the last time.

They slinked down the rugged terrain of the gateway into the mountains, their footfalls kicking up stones and snow. It was too dark for the humans to see it, but he could see all. The bulwark was beginning to disband and they were ready to march to flush the hunters out. Revas recognized the maneuver. He’d dealt with guardsmen from the cities all over the Marches, and this movement resembled Kirkwall’s guard. Donovan probably trained there. It didn’t matter now. Kirwall, Starkhaven, Hircinia….none of them were Autini. Revas would give him a taste of some of Lavellan’s own hospitality. 

He led the hunters through the dense pines, treading lightly, attempting to get as far as they could before being seen. They approached the forces, the lead shield-bearers only a hundred yards off, before they were spotted. Revas motioned with his hand to give the order, and the hunters dispersed, scattering into the trees. He waited again, only long enough for them to steel their nerves, and took a deep breath to steel his own. He loaded his bow again, aiming at another large human. Better to pick off who could smash him with a warhammer first than to have to face them head on. 

His arrow flew and hit it’s mark. It embedded in the eye of the man, his neck snapping backwards and he fell to the ground like a heavy stone. Dead on impact. Two confirmed kills so far. He smirked widely when more pricking arrows flew from the dense woods and into the unsuspecting ranks. The humans responded in kind with their own bows, letting their arrows fly into the black pines. The shots were wild and easily avoided, and his smile grew even wider. He nocked his next arrow, and as soon as firing from the humans ceased, he whipped around the tree and shot into the ranks again; this time killing a soldier carrying a tower shield. The hunters followed his lead, and they chuckled at the shemlen falling one by one. 

It was enough to anger some officer in the ranks, and he shouted an order to move into the forest. Revas barked a laugh at the shortsightedness and reloaded. 

“Looks like we’re going to see morning after all!” he shouted jubilantly as he shot two more arrows into the vulnerable central ranks.

The hunters who heard him gave a laugh, with one piping up, “We’ll see about that.”

“HALT!” a great yell came up from the human ranks, and the frontlines moving towards them in the forest stopped. The man who gave the order was the only one mounted in the entire company, an old brown horse stomping it’s hoof as its rider pulled back on the reigns. Revas peeked around the cover of the tree to get a better look, and saw a younger man -- not much older than himself -- with an officer’s uniform. 

It was Captain Donovan. 

“Step foot in that forest and you’ll be strung up in little pieces in the trees,” Donovan lectured his company, looking sternly on the man who gave them the order to pursue, “Knife ears don’t play by the normal rules. This is a trap.”

His gut sank and he heard the other hunters whispering nervously. They were depending on meeting the soldiers on their footing, not the open grounds near the river. 

Donovan rode to the front of the ranks, his mount trotting up and down the length of them, his shield raised up to protect himself from any arrows they might rain down on him. Revas knew he was assessing the situation, and could almost see his determined eyes peering into the forest to root out every single hunter. His heart raced in his chest in anger. They had been stopped before they ever truly began. 

The Captain returned to the central ranks, and the hunters waited in silence for his next move. They were at his mercy until they could anticipate how to gain the advantage again. Despite the cold, sweat dripped down Revas’ temples; he hoped Twig and Llyn were in position to back them up if this went sour.

“It’s not their entire force. They’re probably trying to lead us in. See over there,” Donovan pointed to the sharpened stakes they had set up earlier, just inside the dark forest, “They wanted to wound our infantry so they could pick off everyone else while we get turned around in the woods. That’s how these cowards fight. Hit and run, never face to face. They know they can’t win otherwise.”

Revas stood up and aimed his bow. The shot would be long -- far too long for him to make it -- and Donovan was covered head-to-toe in armor. He still couldn’t let the insult stand. 

“ _Shem’assan, no!_ ” one of the hunters whispered harshly. But it was too late. He’d rather die than let this shemlen filth run his mouth. 

The arrow flew, but fell far too short. It bounced off an unsuspecting shield bearer on the front lines -- not even wounding him -- and Revas felt impotent. Useless. All their planning for nothing. They would have no choice but to face this force head on. At least they had made a dent in the first wave. He hoped it would mean something in the coming battle.

Donovan saw the arrow fall and stared back into the forest. It made Revas feel exposed, vulnerable. He hated it. He hated him.

“Burn them out.”

After the Captain gave the order, three robed figures swung glowing staves, and it was too late before Revas realized they were mages.

“MOVE!” he shouted at the hunters, and they scrambled to climb up the steep base of the mountains. He turned and fired off arrows towards the damned mages, but once again, it did no good. He was too far away.

The blasts of fire came almost on top of each other, less than a heartbeat between each. The first landed behind them, knocking him over in the shockwave. The second, right in front of them, and it loosened the rocky incline into the mountains. The third landed in the same spot, causing the rock and dirt and the trees rooted in them to slide down violently, burying two of the hunters. 

He was up as fast as he could, reaching and pulling the hunters on the ground nearby him. “We can’t stay here, we have to regroup with Twig!”

But another barrage of blasts came, bringing more and more gravel and dirt and stones and splintered wood flying down on them. Small fires started to burn all around them, the cracked and exposed wood feeding it. There would be no way back to high ground for them. All other choices were taken away. Pitched battle was their only option.

Revas struggled to pull the hunters back together while avoiding the mages’ bombardment, the flashfire spreading everywhere and the smoke choking him. But they wouldn’t go down suffocating in these woods. They would fight. 

“Up and behind me Lavellan!” he yelled as he threw branches and debris off one of the hunters. The body underneath was broken and bleeding, the eyes blank. Lost.

Yet, the ones who could fight still followed his orders, and their bows were risen, ready to fire on his command. He left the body and ran headlong towards toward the human contingent. The mages still threw fire, but it was landing further behind them now.But the blaze of the forest made it much easier for the shems to see them now, and to his dismay, arrows began to rise from their ranks. Revas darted behind trees, careful to keep his footing. They just needed to be a little closer, and their bows might actually do something. 

The firing arrows and mages stopped suddenly, their attention drawn elsewhere. It was a reprieve, and not one he would waste. 

“They’re distracted!” he told the remaining hunters that ran behind him. They approached the front ranks, the trees thinning and their hearts racing, “Use your bows for as long as you can but have your axes ready. They won’t show us any quarter, and I want you to return the favor in kind.”

He didn’t wait for their acknowledgment before he raced out of the trees and roughly slid to the ground, bracing his bow. The soldiers in front of him were holding their shields against a hail of arrows falling on them from the west. It was Llyn and the Ethinan trying to draw them off, take some of the fire.

Revas knew he could count on him. 

He fired his arrows, picking off distracted soldiers, and the hunters followed his lead. There were more blasts of fireballs, this time towards the Ethinan, but they were closer to the river. They could hand it. 

It took a few moments of the constant fire of arrows before the humans decided on their formation, and Donovan gave orders from the thick of it. There was too much noise, too much shouting to figure out what he was saying. It didn’t matter ultimately. Revas was running out of arrows.

“Well, that didn’t go according to plan!” 

Twig’s familiar voice came from behind him, and he broke his gaze long enough to see him and the rest of the hunters join their ranks. 

“No fucking kidding!” he shouted over his shoulder as he loosed two more arrows on the humans.

“What’s the plan now?” 

There were only a few more arrows in his quiver, and Revas wanted to save them. He loosened the leather sheathing his axe at his waist, and pulled it out. It was heavy in his hand, not what he was used to, but it would do the job. 

“New plan is take as many shems out as we can,” he said bluntly, “There’s nowhere else for us to run.”

Twig pulled out his own axe -- a hefty, two handed monster -- and laughed. 

“I’m in,” he stood up with Revas and watched as the nearby humans began to advance on them, “If I don’t make it out of here, tell Vera I died like a warrior. That’ll make her happy.”

He flashed his friend a wide grin, then waved the hunters close. They closed ranks, matching the formation of the humans, and the few of them had shields held them high. 

“Alright Lavellan. Get ready to meet Falon’din, but make sure you send as many of these bastards to their Maker as you can before you do!” 

They gave a great shout in affirmation, and with a reckless abandon reserved for death, Revas led the charge towards the human’s front lines. 

The forces met with a great cry, shields and steel slamming into one another, loud grunts of struggle. Revas helped Twig push against one of the shield-bearers, hoping to break through the formation. The shem was strong, but Twig was stronger, and the tower shield ripped from his hands, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Twig swung his great axe down on him, and the first of the front line blood was spilled.

Revas took the chance to squeeze into the ranks swinging his hand axe low and crippling two more shield-bearers. He backed out once they went down, re-joining his ranks. Their strength would always be in guerilla tactics, even on the frontlines. It was the Hunter’s Way. By the cries of the falling humans, it seemed they didn’t appreciate it. 

The humans attempted to surge forward, trying to overwhelm the hunters with force. Their meager shields went up in retaliation, and met the surge with their own impassioned fight. 

“Make them work for it, Lavellan!” he barked as he met the surge with his shoulder. He pressed against the human’s wooden shield with all his strength, and the icy ground made the soldier lose his footing, causing him to slip. Revas took his chance and grabbed his shield, lifting it before coming down on the fallen human’s back with the axe in his right hand. The human gave a gurgled death cry, and he yanked his weapon back.

He met every hit with his own, using his stolen yew buckler to deflect. Swing low, then high, push them back, then make the killing blow. Two steps back with the hunters, then push them to surge again. They were making a dent, but he realized this couldn’t be sustained. There were simply too many.

“Spread out, you idiots!” he heard an order chime in over the melee, “Wrap around them so they can’t keep falling back!”. Captain Donovan was watching with obvious frustration at his soldiers’ faltering skill and was just giving words to what Revas already knew he would do.

The orders were followed faithfully, and he watched as the infantry began to thin itself out to wrap around them. They had the numbers, and the soldiers who were patiently waiting now threatened to flank them. The hunters did their best to meet them, but they were being overwhelmed. The Ethinan may be able to come help….but when Revas heard the next bombardment of fireballs from the mages, he knew this was the end. 

There would be no retreat. No surrender. And they all understood.

They fought like demons, ripping and clawing and screaming, and Revas lost track of how many humans he killed. Their blood soaked him, dripping streams of life clinging to his steel and his skin, and it didn’t feel like enough.The humans finally fell on the back ranks of the hunters, and began to cut them down. Three soldiers pushed through the front ranks as their fellows brutally slaughtered his people, and he did his best to hold them off. It would not be enough.

His time had come, and he thought of everything he would never see, and though it had not happened, he missed it. The pain of one of the human’s sword slashing his thigh was less than the pain of not seeing his kid, not seeing Elain again. He fell onto his knee at the injury, and looked up to watch his death come at the end of the raised longblade the human pulled back over his head. 

But instead, he saw an arrow fly into his throat, blood spurting out like a fountain, and the sword dropped in front of him as the man met the earth in his death throes. More arrows came, hitting the others surrounding them, followed by another distraction. It wasn’t Llyn and the Ethinan. They were closer to the river. These reinforcements came from behind them. 

“Who’s firing those?” Twig asked him frantically as he cut down another human with his axe, “Did the Diceni finally decide to show up?”

Revas pulled himself up from the ground and winced at the pain in his leg. He looked to the right of the burning grove the mages had set on fire, and saw banners and more reinforcements. They were not soldiers, didn’t move like them. They weren’t Dalish either though, by the looks of the bows he now saw firing. 

“Son of a bitch,” the realization hit him like a fist to the face, “She did it. _Sar’een came through!_ ”

He pulled his bow back out and picked up the quiver of one of the hunters that had fallen near him. His leg hurt, but he could still move, still fight. Aiming his bow, he took a shot at the soldiers still attempting to flank the hunters. They were dropping like flies.

“Stand Lavellan! The Inquisition is here! Do you want some Chantry forces to show you up?!” he bellowed at them. 

The hunters shouted and argued and cheered, all at once, the relief and hope palpable. They raised their bows and filled them with the last few arrows they had, eager to prove that they weren’t defeated yet.

“SUPPRESSING FIRE!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, and every last ounce of fight they had in them went into the arrows pushing back the front lines. 

The Inquisition’s own fire halted while they did so, and their skirmishers ran into battle, picking off the bowmen and mages, one by one. Donovan’s forces started to fall back, but they were trapped against the river. If the hunters and the Inquisition could hold, it would be a bloodbath, and Revas was all too eager to bathe in the battle now. His arrows ran out, but his axe was still there, and he limply ran after the soldiers attempting to fall back. 

The human ranks fell apart, and they started to scatter, some crossing back over the river, some taking their chances trying to run past the hunters and the Inquisition. They didn’t make it far. The battle was all but won and Revas was elated, until he saw Donovan disappearing into the forest across the river. He had crossed while they weren’t paying attention, leaving most his men to die on the battlefield, like a dog running with his tail tucked between his legs. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.

“Who’s the coward now Donovan!” he shouted over the river, cupping his bloodied hands over his mouth, making the other hunters laugh. 

They couldn’t help but be happy, to find levity in this. They lost a lot today, but they had won their lives. And that was worth celebrating.

An hour later, the last of the human forces were cut down, and the hunters were working on tending to their flesh wounds, resting before they headed back to join the rest of the clan. Revas sat on a large rock among them, pouring icy water over the cut on his upper thigh, and just learning how to breath again. The come down after a fight was always a battle in of itself. The water soothed the fiery pain that lingered in the cut, and once it was clean, he was relieved to see it wasn’t as bad as he thought. He and many other hunters would still need a healer though. They could not linger here forever.

But they had to wait for the Inquisition to leave. Outsiders, no matter if they helped or not, were not to be fully trusted. Revas remembered that keenly as he saw a group of their officers approach him. 

“I’m looking for your leader! We need to speak with them!” one of the Inquisition agents asked, her voice loud and demanding. The hunters looked around, their lips held tightly together, suddenly very quiet. It was one thing for this Chantry organization to help them out of the fire. It was another thing entirely to give them any kind of information.

“I am,” he finally spoke up, knowing Sar’een would probably want some kind of message sent back. He was still floored she managed to come through, so the least he could do was let her know they made it out okay. 

“And you are?” the woman asked him sharply. 

Revas opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted.

“Well fuck me sideways, if it isn’t Shem’assan!” a familiar voice spoke up as he caught sight of him. The elf next to the Inquisition agent paused, looking Revas’ exhausted body over, ”Gods, you look like _shit._ ” 

His voice was the equivalent of teeth grinding to the roots to Revas, and the pain in his leg was replaced by a subtle pounding of a headache forming. The high of the battle wore off quickly, and his face turned down in a frown.

“Sarrion.”

\----

“You got a lot of nerve coming back here without the Warlord and the Maiden’s head,” Lokka reprimanded him through a cloud of smoke over his desk. He inhaled on his pipe deeply, and blew more towards Donovan’s direction, his face as hard as stone, “Don’t you dare ask me for the other half of your pay.”

“I’m not here for that,” he said bitterly, “I could care less about the gold. You know this means more than money to me.”

“Yeah, kid,” he huffed out, “It’s about revenge for your dad, I get it. Problem is, you have to be able to finish the fucking job.”

“The Inquisition showed up.”

Lokka set the pipe down and slammed his book shut, “You don’t think I know that? Pierce told sent me word as soon as you got out of Autini.”

“I was expecting elves, not Chantry. I knew you wouldn’t want to get involved in that either. So as soon as I saw the banner, I turned around,” he explained. It was true. This wasn’t an explanation to excuse him running away. He knew how Lokka worked, and getting Glover justice was too important now to just let it go. 

The dwarf gave a heavy sigh, and sank into his high-back back, the leather upholstery making muffled squeaks as it adjusted to his weight, “Hate to admit it, but you did right. Last thing I need is to get the Inquisition involved in this. Duke Antoine was adamant about not drawing their attention.”

“Well that didn’t work. I expected them to call for help from another clan,” he admitted. It was an oversight on his part.

“The Inquisitor is one of their own, but if there’s one thing Dalish hate, it’s the Chantry. Took a lot of balls for them to ask for help from there,” Lokka picked his pipe up again and chewed on the mouthpiece, “Can’t account for everything, I guess.”

“No, we can’t,” Donovan replied.

Lokka stood up suddenly from behind his desk, and pushed his chair back. He walked around and headed towards the door leading out of his office. He stopped only for a second.

“Tell Rita to pack your belongs. I want you and your family coming with me to Wycome. Duke Antoine won’t be happy, but we can still salvage this. No arguments.”

He walked out of the office, closing the door behind him, leaving Donovan sitting at the empty desk, sweat forming on his brow. This wasn’t a little vacation to smooth things over with the Duke. Lokka never got family involved unless he planned to use them. He leaned his elbows on the great mahogany desk, and set his head in his palms. 

Donovan had just wanted to avenge his father. Give him the justice that he deserved. And now, it was going to cost him everything.


	15. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunters return to Clan Lavellan and find turmoil waiting for them.

The camp was bustling and alive in the morning. Once the news that the Diceni had arrived spread, an atmosphere of hope permeated through the clan. The hearthworkers chatted excitedly while doling out scoops of warm stew into waiting bowls, and the artisans gambled over the outcome of the battle. Two yards of the finest fabric and spool of shimmering thread to the closest guess, shared if need be. The bustle of life was contagious, and the dread that had fallen over the camp seemed to be slowly lifting.

That is, until the Diceni returned without Lavellan’s hunters.

Elain had been dressing for the day when she was warned of their approach. Despite the flurry of voices and shouts, she remained calm, putting each piece of her armor on, one by one. The cuirass, the pauldrons and then the gauntlets, followed by the leg guards. The motions were methodic and practiced, nearly meditative in their tranquility. It helped her steel her nerves and harden her heart.

Once dressed, she grabbed her thick hair in her fist and tied it into a tail at the crown of her head. There would be not time for elaborate decor and ceremony today. She looked in the hand mirror on the table, and sighed at the heavy bags under her eyes and the way her skin looked pale and clammy. It was not how she wanted to present herself to the beginning of her downfall, but there was little choice. No amount of beautification would hide the encroaching fear written on her face. She laid down the hand mirror carefully and picked up her Mantle -- heavy and full -- from it’s stand and slipped it over her shoulders before leaving the comfort of her yurt.

One of the hunters who had stayed behind to help her efforts to defend the bulk of the clan waited outside, and she motioned for him to follow her. He nodded his affirmation, and they set out to the edge of camp where she would undoubtedly meet Warlord Threlen and receive news of the destruction of the clan’s hunters. She walked tall and straight, her authority unquestionable, but inside, she felt numb. Dealing with the pain of loss right now was out of the question. She was still Maiden, and there was still duty to attend to. Grief could come later; in the dark of night when no hungry eyes could gaze on her, and she was alone but for the stars in the heavens.

She drew upon the edge of camp and saw the large force of Diceni hunters ambling about restlessly, their armor pristine, and their quivers full. They had never even shot an arrow. The battle had been lost before they could even arrive.

“Elain!” Keeper Deshanna waved her down from a gathering crowd near where the Diceni waited. She walked with her hunter companion to meet their frazzled leader.

“Have you heard news yet?” she asked the Keeper.

“No,” Deshanna replied, her voice betraying her exhaustion, “I had hoped Den would be lucid, but he’s not. It will be just the two of us bearing this. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s our job,” Elain reminded her, “Let’s go. Threlen doesn’t like to wait.”

They pushed through the near panicking crowd, voices distraught and angry, and headed down the small snowbank where the Diceni waited at the bottom. The descent was only a few yards but felt like a lifetime, the crunching snow and ice beneath their feet drowning out all else. Elain felt her heart beating out of her chest as she caught sight of Warlord Threlen standing at the vanguard of his hunters, solemn and stern, his eagle companion sitting anxiously on his forearm. She felt that anxiety as well.

Her palms sweat, her breathing was becoming rapid, and no matter how much she tried to control it, she couldn’t stop the subtle crunching of the snow under her soles that was turning to the loud, wet crunching of maggots swarming beneath her. They approached the Diceni, and Elain’s heart beat against her ribcage when they appeared to have black, glassy eyes and their vallaslin bled down their faces. They were the harbingers of death, and as a Herald of Death, Andruil’s Will pressed down on her oppressively.

“Greetings, Warlord Threlen,” she heard Deshanna say, “Andaran atish’an.”

“Aneth ara, Deshanna,” the old Warlord responded, bowing his head slightly, “It’s my great pleasure to be welcomed by Clan Lavellan once again.”

His mouth opened and shut, speaking the words, words Elain understood, but they came out as muffled and far away. It was as if she were hearing him through a wall, and she fought to keep her calm.

Threlen turned towards her, “And it is good to see you too, Maiden.”

When his blind, scarred-over eye fell on her, it was shining as if it held the sun behind it. The thin skin of the permanently closed eyelid radiated heat so strongly, it glowed orange, as if she reached out and touched it, it would sear her fingertips. It unnerved her what new horrors her mind could provide, and as the maggots chewed and gnawed on the soles of her feet, she merely wanted an end. An end to this constant torment, and end to her pain, an end to the uncertainty, just an end. She was tired.

“It is premature to say it is good to see me when you have arrived too late. Do you presume that you will escape my wrath for merely ‘trying your best’? The call for aid was sent long ago, Warlord,” her words came quickly and bitterly in her agitation, and she closed the distance between herself and this miasmatic phantom posing as Threlen in her madness. His eagle flapped it’s great wings in nervousness as she stood so close to him, she could smell his breath; smoked meat and sour milk, making her stomach turn.

Threlen did not drop his gaze from her, however, and the glow of the sun seemed to grow brighter.

“The valley is full of demons that we had to fight through to get this deep inside. And you know my people are used to the steppes. These thick forests are hard to navigate for even your clan,” he explained to her, not patronizing, but not reassuring either, and his voice still seemed like it was reaching her from across a great distance, “I came as soon as I could. I am sorry it was not soon enough.”

_Not soon enough._

“Tell me Threlen: was ‘as soon as you could’ a direct order from my brother? Or were his instructions more...unhurried?” she asked the question through a set jaw, and the visions of the maggot’s teeth were becoming more acute, sending sharp pain up her legs. She walked in Death’s domain now, and the pain was secondary.

The heavy brow of the old Warlord tightened, and his twisted mouth contorted into a frown. She knew he would understand the insinuation.

“Elain…” Deshanna warned, but she ignored her Keeper’s distant calls. She would not let this injustice go unsettled.

“I just find it unusual your hunters spent so much time fighting demons, when their quivers are unspent and their weapons and armor clean,” her voice rose, and as it did, the intensity of the illusion did as well. Golden flecks floated through the air like snow, and she felt the Mantle weigh heavily upon her. “Perhaps they were dispatched through magical means by The Hand? Or perhaps they never existed?”

“Elain, _please_ ,” the Keeper pleaded with her as she grabbed her arm to pull her away from Threlen. She threw her hand off of her violently, making Deshanna gasp.

“Perhaps Keeper Paeris saw the opportunity to ‘liberate’ Lavellan from the Maiden’s influence, and what better way than to let their hunters perish? A Maiden without hunters is a tragedy...and an embarrassment. The High Keeper of the Free Marches would have no choice but to come in waving the flag of peace and safety under his benevolent embrace.”

Threlen said nothing, but stared through her, unwilling or unable to answer her accusations. It enraged her, infuriated her. She was so sure he was a willing pawn in Paeris’ orchestration, and his silence spoke of his guilt as surely as a confession would. But the aging Warlord was loyal to a fault, and no amount of confrontation would move him.

“Of course, that would blasphemy, if it were true. And my brother is a true arbiter of the will of the Creators and The People. I am sure you did the best you could to save what you could,” she finally backed away from him, the pain nearly crippling her legs now, but she managed to return to her position next to Deshanna. The flecks of gold in the air swirled and spun before her eyes, and Elain knew she was lost in her own mind. She had failed her hunters. She had failed her clan. She had failed her Goddess. In all things.

There was a silence that hung between them, dark and foreboding, even as Deshanna frantically extended invitation inside the camp proper and to the Council. Warlord Threlen grunted his approval at the invitation, and the bulk of the Diceni began to move as they followed Deshanna into the boundaries of the clan. Elain stood still, watching, waiting for something, she was not sure what.

Threlen waited as well, watched as well, his good eye fallen on her in deep interest. The other was a nova of light, nearly blinding her, but she would not cower before him or before any man. She may have failed the Mother of Hares, but she would not admit defeat to the likes of Threlen.

As most of his hunters moved inside camp and The Hand of Vengeance brought up the rear, Threlen finally moved towards her. He paused next to Elain, his eye still penetrating her.

“I am truly sorry I was not in time to help Lavellan’s hunters,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. Elain gritted her teeth together and attempted to level him with her own gaze. His flaunting of her loss was unacceptable.

“Fortunately for you, Maiden, the Inquisition was.”

He walked away, up the snowbank and towards the Council yurt being erected in haste in the center of camp. The illusions shattered around her; the snow suddenly snow again, the flickering gold dissolving in the air, and the sharp pain evaporating entirely.

She was left staring, alone in the reality of the situation, her mouth clenched and her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment, already understanding the grave mistake she had made.

\----

When Revas caught a whiff of the burning fires of the camp on the gusts of frigid wind in the mountain paths, it almost made the last two days seem like a dream. A dream of death and fear and adrenaline and everything in between, hovering over his sleep-deprived mind. But the smell of cooking meat and the rumbling sound of a large gathering was just as real as what he and the rest of the hunters had endured, and they were long overdue to enjoy the comforts of the only home they ever knew.

“We’re getting close; you can almost smell the halla shit,”Sarrion spoke from behind him, disgust painting his grating voice.

“What’d I tell you about opening your fucking mouth, seth’lin?” he snapped, turning to face the unpleasant reminder that this whole ordeal wasn’t over yet. Twig pulled on his shoulder, trying to get him moving forward again, but Revas was too tired and too exhausted to have the patience to deal with Sarrion anymore.

“Right, right. Told me to keep it closed,” he replied, having the good sense to not taunt him anymore. Revas turned around to continue the trek, “But really, I think you are missing a great opportunity to enjoy the full benefits of me _‘opening my fucking mouth’_. It really is talented at both being open _and_ fucking.”

He lunged for the elf, pulling him up by his shirt and grabbing his jaw roughly with his free hand before Twig got a chance to stop him again. Sarrion still wore the shit-eating grin on his face, highly amused over the entire thing.

“One more word,” Revas threatened him, digging his fingers in the space that hinged his jaw, making Sarrion give a startled snort of air out of his nose, “And I’ll make sure it’s your last. No one is going to miss you. Not even this Inquisition agent who you duped into letting you come along. Understood?”

He gave a nod, and Revas shoved him to the ground. He rubbed his jaw and groaned, but still managed to croak out a laugh.

“That how you Dalish treat each other?” the Inquisition agent asked as she caught up with them, pulling Sarrion up from the ground.

“He’s not Dalish,” Revas replied. Twig shot him a look as he started walking towards the camp again.

“The tattoos on his face say otherwise,” the agent responded dryly as she took a few great strides to catch up with him. He didn’t respond to her, and instead, focused on making it the next mile. They were so close, then he could let the Council deal with these nuisances.

It was another half hour of walking in utter silence before the scouts Llyn had sent ahead met up with them. They shifted nervously in place as they waited for him and the others on the perimeter of the camp, and he could sense there was something off. It wasn’t until they got closer and he saw Sorn standing among them that he knew there was a problem.

“Wait here,” he told the Inquisition agent absently, and she made to protest, but Twig distracted her as he limped up towards the waiting scouts. A few smiled when they saw him, but most of the small group were dark-faced and quiet.

“Greeting party?” he asked as he approached. Sorn frowned.

“More like gatekeepers. There’s no heroes parade today,” he responded grimly. Revas creased his brow and looked over his shoulder at the hunters that fought with him, waiting to go home eagerly now.

“And why not? Something more important than giving a little fucking respect to the men and women who kept the rest of you alive?” the words tumbled out hotly, and he was unsure why his anger was flaring up so badly. Maybe the lack of sleep.

“Keep your temper in check, Shem’assan,” Sorn warned him, “Nothing is more important to me than that, don’t question it. But the situation here has changed.”

“How?”

Sorn sucked in a deep breath, “The Diceni arrived.”

He shook his head, not understanding the implication, “And? They didn’t do shit to help us.”

“It doesn’t matter what they did or didn’t do; Den gave them permission to hunt,” Sorn turned and started walking up the small snow embankment that led up to the camp, “Come on. I’ll explain on the way in.”

Revas pointed down towards the agent and Sarrion, “There’s two Inquisition emissaries that have to talk with the Keeper before they can pull their forces out of the valley. Help Twig find them someplace quiet and isolated to wait until Deshanna has the time to see them. One of them has vallaslin but is to be treated like any other shem. Understood?”

The scouts waiting to escort the hunters into the camp nodded their understanding, and Revas strode through the snow to catch up with Sorn.

“Was that Sarrion I saw?” Sorn asked him when he joined him.

“Yeah,” Revas affirmed, “Inquisition picked him up in Kirkwall to guide them through Autini. Their head agent wanted to bring him in the camp because she thinks he’ll provide some kind of special Dalish insight so she doesn’t trip over herself or something.”

“Council isn’t going to be happy about that,” he replied.

“Who cares? He’ll be gone in a day and be out of our hair,” Revas brushed him off, not interested in what Council had to say about an exiled flat ear.

“You’re injured,” Sorn stated, his voice slightly concerned as he looked down on his leg.

Revas looked at the cut on his thigh, wrapped tightly but still oozing some blood, “Took a sword right before the Chantry forces showed up. Long, but not deep. I’ll be fine. What’s this dire situation stopping the clan from welcoming back the hunters?”

They reached the edge of camp and Revas saw firsthand the chaos; familiar faces running to and fro, carrying blankets and canvas, hurriedly setting a more permanent settlement. Yurts were rising from the ground, the grunts and groans of their laborers drowning out the gossiping hearth workers and squealing children running under their feet. But among the known and familiar, there were things that were new. Small fires and large tents had been erected on the perimeter, not of Lavellan make. They were hand stitched with eagles and elaborate suns, the symbols of Elgar’nan, Son of the Sun.

The Diceni had more than arrived. They were making themselves very comfortable.

Sorn waved him towards his yurt, holding back his wicker hanging as Revas stepped inside. His belongings had not been unpacked yet, but the hearth inside was stoked and boiling water on it.

“There was an incident this morning. I wasn’t there, but from the information I’ve gathered, Elain snapped. She offended Warlord Threlen,” Sorn started.

“What? What did she do?”

Sorn sat on a pile of folded blankets on the floor of the yurt, stretching his bad leg out in front of him.

“From what I’ve been able to glean, she accused him of waiting until our hunters were dead before trying to make a show of attempting to arrive in time to help them. All while implicating Paeris in it,” his voice was level but irritated, “Threlen took everything from Den’s injury to the attacks to the hunters having to make a final stand as a lack of leadership. He’s going to be approaching Council tonight, but as you saw, the Diceni are already burrowing themselves in.”

“Gods Elain,” he dropped himself down on the ground next to Sorn and buried his head in his hands, “Why would she do that? We lost hunters, but saved the majority. There was no reason...”

“She’s losing her grip and losing it fast,” Sorn explained, “But in her defence, the Diceni came to camp, left, and returned this morning with none of our hunters. People assumed it was because they were too late. Threlen didn’t get a chance to explain that the Inquisition came until after she lost her temper.”

“What is she doing now?”

“Trying to save what she can,” he said, “Talking with The Hand of Vengeance and hoping their common background as scions will earn her some goodwill with him.”

His head was beginning to pound, “Aneth’ail is here too? Shit. That means Paeris…”

“Is probably on his way, yeah.”

It didn’t matter how much goodwill Elain could earn herself. Revas knew there was something far more damning that Paeris would see soon enough. Her supposed outburst against Threlen would be nothing compared to the swelling abdomen she wouldn’t be able to hide come the next couple of months.

“Anything we can do to get the Diceni out of here?” he asked Sorn.

“Not that I can figure out. Maybe the Council will revoke Den’s permission, or maybe they’ll only allow a certain number. It’s all up in the air right now,” he suddenly stood and limped towards the exit of the yurt, “Just make sure not to make a scene and to support the Maiden. The hunters have to stand behind her if we want to stay autonomous.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“I’m going to help Twig get the Inquisition settled. Maybe Elain can use them to turn things her way, who knows,” he pulled the wicker hanging back and the cold air blew inside the warm yurt, “I’ll send Aoife back here to clean up your leg. When she’s done, try to get some sleep. I think you’ve earned it.”

“Thanks,” Revas told him as he watched Sorn limp out into the camp.

The wicker entrance fell back down, and he was left alone. He grabbed onto the fur pile sitting nearby and spread a couple out on the floor, then rolled over and laid on his back. He stared at the ceiling of the yurt, his eyes heavy, his gut clenched in nervousness, his leg throbbing, and his head pounding.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he mumbled to himself before his eyes fluttered shut and his exhaustion overtook him.

\---

The Council hut was packed full that night, and Revas could barely hear anything over the loud talking and gossiping settling over the group. Every prominent elf in the clan had made themselves known, as well as numerous Diceni hunters. Even Den had made a show of dragging himself into the meeting, fully-armored, though he did not know how he had been able to carry the weight of it for more than a few minutes.

He was disappointed there hadn’t been more pomp over his arrival; a couple of days ago, the Council were at a loss of what to do and he stepped in to make the hard choice for them. And now, even after returning victorious, he was congratulated by some of the retired hunters, but passed over for bigger concerns. It was the way of politics -- something he wasn’t naive to after spending so many years working with Elain -- but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Though he would by lying if he said he hated being ignored, the fact that the deeds of the clan’s hunters as a whole would go unsung was the far greater crime.

His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of Deshanna and Warlord Threlen, followed closely behind by The Maiden and The Hand. The small group took their seats at the head of the yurt, and the loud cacophony of voices started to quiet, eager to feast on the drama that was sure to come.

“Lavellan welcomes Clan Diceni and their Warlord tonight,” Deshanna held her hands up in the air, her deep voice filling the pavilion, “Our food is their food, our hearth is their hearth, our shelter is their shelter, our blessings are their blessings. As it has been for our ancestors, so shall it be for us.”

‘ _So shall it be_ ,” he responded, along with the rest of the gathered crowd. An answer to an old prayer, tradition still intact in the chaos.

The Keeper lowered her hands, letting them fall to either side of her waist. The fingers there played with her belt. She was nervous.

“Before we open this session, I would like to welcome Revas and hunters back from the jaw of Death, where they triumphed over the human invaders who would have wiped us from the face of Thedas with no regrets,” she said loudly, her voice strong and stern. There was a polite applause at the commendation, but Revas felt it was too little too late. Very few hunters were in attendance in the meeting; the rest were trying to recover from all that they lost by standing for them all.

“I must also extend my congratulations to our First, Sar’een. Even though she is not here, her presence was made very known when she heard the call of her clan and sent her operatives to aid us in our hour of need,” the Keeper said, “They turned the tide of an unwinnable battle, and Lavellan will live to see another season because of her.”

Another round of polite applause rang out, but Revas grew antsy waiting for the arguments to begin. These self-congratulations would mean little to the Diceni.

“I yield the floor to Warlord Threlen, who answered the call to our side as well, but not before the Inquisition. Warlord?”

Deshanna tilted her head towards Threlen and sat down with all the dignity she could muster, which was surprisingly more than Revas expected. He caught a glimpse of Elain next to her, her eyes sunken and dark, but her Mantle obstructing most everything else. Revas wished he could’ve talked to her before this meeting. There was no way of him knowing what was going through everyone’s mind, and he felt helpless.

Threlen stood and cleared his throat, the loud grunt drawing his attention back to the matters at hand.

“I am not a man of speeches and theatre, as my hunters know. I will be blunt. This clan is in no condition anymore to recover gracefully from this human treachery. Your hunters are weakened, your Warlord is severely injured, and your Maiden is incapable of handling this alone on top of her many duties…”

“I will ask that you do not speak for me, Warlord,” Elain warned him from her spot next to Deshanna. Threlen continued, unperturbed.

“I am merely proposing a partnership between our clans until such a time that the High Keeper of the Free Marches finds Lavellan capable of handling their own defense. The safety of the clan is the top priority, of course.”

Whispers of shock and anger broke out among the Council. Revas felt his own anger rising as well. The audacity of the Warlord that didn’t lift a finger to help them coming into to act as savior was almost laughable, but he would hold his tongue tonight. For Elain’s sake.

That did not stop his mother, however.

“You have nerves made of ironbark to come to this Council under the guise of protection when you failed _so tremendously_ to protect our hunters when we asked!” Sohta hopped up from her spot next to Den, already yelling, “It was OUR hunters who held the line and it was OUR First who provided the backup we needed. We don’t need help from the likes of you. Lavellan stands on our own, as we have always done.”

Cheers came up from the crowd as well as scattered claps, but the stone face of Threlen was not moved.

“You prefer the help of humans? The help of the Chantry? Remember that is what saved this clan last night. The very organization that drove us from our homeland and are the reason why we wander as we do. Is this what Clan Lavellan has been reduced to? Depending on our oppressors to protect them?”

The argument caused more whispers, and the excitement Sohta stirred quieted suddenly.

“A true shame that our oppressors were more dependable than the great Clan Diceni!” Sohta argued back, her cheeks growing red in her anger, “A travesty that the Dalish cannot count on each other when we are in need, but instead must turn to outside help!”

“A travesty indeed. It makes me wonder who made the call to reach out to the Chantry first instead of to other clans?” Threlen asked no one in particular, but a hushed silence fell over the room., “Are the Silures not indebted to this clan? The Alais? Why didn’t the call go to the home clan of your Keeper, Istimaethoriel? Dalish depending on Dalish...a fine idea. It is a shame Lavellan does not feel the necessity of putting it to practice.”

Sohta sat back down, tight lipped, unable to argue. As much as it pained them, the hypocrisy was apparent, and the Council merely stared at the aging Warlord from his position at the head of the pavilion.

“It was the Maiden who made the call.”

Revas grit his teeth at the simpering sound of Loremaster Kellen inserting himself into this argument. They wanted the blame to fall somewhere, and naturally Kellen would find himself in a position to make Elain the scapegoat. He saw her nostrils flare at the Loremaster’s transparent move, and he felt his own temper rising.

“I did,” Elain said darkly, her words dripping with malice, “And I would do so again, Loremaster. Chantry or not, they answer to our First, and our First has a duty to protect her clan. She did so admirably.”

“So she did,” Kellen started, his brow sweating in the heat of the crowded yurt, “But let’s not forget why she is encumbered with Chantry propaganda in everything she does now: your insistence on spying on the human Conclave.”

“Careful,” Old Bida croaked from her massive pile of furs and blankets, a warning against his direction lest it turn to blasphemy.

“Caution?” he asked the old Maiden, his confidence picking up, “Caution is something I have always argued for and have always practiced. It is the Maiden who has continually put our lives at stake in her years she has served the Goddess. The Conclave wasn’t her first stumbling…”

“You speak of a scion, Kellen,” Bida answered him, “Choose your words wisely.”

“I speak of a woman who has hungered for power and used her influence to feast on the weak!” he countered, his voice raised and his finger pointed accusingly at Elain, “The Silures, the Alais...clans who are indebted to us because the Maiden left them no choice. They would not heed the call for aid because the Maiden has diminished them so greatly, they have nothing to aid us with! No one goes against her will without the Shadow looming, threatening them with death, and she knows it!”

Revas stood up abruptly, already moving to put an end to the Loremaster’s blasphemy. Several hands fell on him to hold him back.

“Ah, and of course, he proves my point! Already stalking and sniffing his prey, like the beast he is, ready to gouge my throat so the words don’t come. And all because I speak the truth.”

“You are speaking nonsense, more like it,” Vhannas cut in, waving a disinterested hand, “I’ve never heard such petty reaching.”

“Of course you would deny your daughter’s wrongdoing in the way she leads us; she learned from you, after all,” Kellen spat back at him bitterly, “But even you cannot refuse that she has broken her oaths to the Lady of the Hunt and is leading this clan into shame and corruption!”

There were shocked gasps and the whispers of the room became loud voices, each trying to talk over the other. Pandemonium broke out, and when Revas shook the hands holding him in place off, he glanced to at Elain to see the color drained from her face. It was the beginning of the end, and it was written all over her.

“Enough!” Deshanna shouted in an attempt to return order, “I will have peace in this Council.”

The voices began to calm, and all eyes fell on the Keeper and Warlord Threlen’s cocked eyebrow next to her.

“I was unaware the Maiden had broken her oaths,” he commented dryly.

“Our Loremaster exaggerates,” Elain responded swiftly, “He mistakes a moment of weakness for something far more serious.”

“I know what I saw, Elain,” Kellen snapped at her, “And so does everyone else who watched the hunters off yesterday morning. Deny it all you want, but our eyes do not deceive us.”

Threlen lifted his hand in the air, “I have heard enough. There is obviously an underlying issue in which the Diceni were unaware of when we came.”

“I can assure your Threlen, it is nothing our clan cannot handle,” Deshanna attempted to gain back control of the situation, but Revas and everyone else in the room knew it would do little good.

“Of that, I am not sure anymore,” he responded sternly, “I will send the bulk of my hunters back to the steppes to report to my Second. Aneth’ail and I will stay here until Keeper Paeris returns from his work in Antiva and can assess the situation. In the meantime, we will get to the bottom of these very serious accusations.”

“That is not necessary,” Den finally spoke up, his words very slow and slurred, “I will see to it myself that this gets a full investigation.”

“While you recover from your injury? No, ma falon, I will see to it,” Threlen told him gently, “And since you gave me permission to hunt, you cannot force me out either, so don’t try. I know Lavellan treasures their freedom as much as any Dalish, and I promise you, I will not infringe upon it. This is merely a precaution.”

There were grumbles and protests, but what was done was done. Den had given the Diceni permission to hunt, and in times of desperation, it meant they could extend their stay in order to see the clan through. Lavellan would have no choice but to open their arms in hospitality to the man who would aid Paeris in absorbing them into the “united” Dalish clans.

The Council and the spectators would begin to file out of the pavilion after a period of gossip and arguing, but Revas had no will to stay and wait for it. Anger burned inside of him, and exhaustion piled on top of that. He left the crowded, suffocating heat of the pavilion without saying a word and stumbled his way across the camp to his own yurt.

The hearth had gone out and he was too tired to try to stoke it. It would be just him and the cold for the evening, and he could care less. He shed his clothes and crawled into the cot that had been hastily set up earlier that night. Closing his eyes, Revas invited in a deep sleep to rest his weary bones.

Just as he felt his body loosening and his mind drifting to the Beyond, the weight of the cot shifted and he sensed Elain’s warm limbs crawling in next to him. She didn't’ say anything, but merely embraced him, her arms wrapping around him, her legs entwining in his. A deep sigh escaped her when he hugged her closer to him, and he felt his lids getting heavy again as her soft, even breath warmed his neck. The eyes closed of their own accord, and the empty darkness of a deep sleep took him swiftly.

The problems of the clan could wait until tomorrow.


	16. Informant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain and Revas confront the aftermath of the fallout with the Diceni.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested, I wrote this stand alone smut that happens in between Chapter 15 and the this one, and is briefly alluded to. Enjoy? http://archiveofourown.org/works/5175476

The night had been very long. Revas had been dreaming of the battle by the river, dreaming of the sword raised over his head to cut him down, dreaming of the humans waiting to kill him last. They lined up the entire clan, and made him watch as they murdered every single one of his kin, one by one. He sweat and trembled slightly, despite not wanting to show them his fear, and the humans laughed at his weakness. When they came to Elain and she begged them to spare her, they also laughed. Her blood splattered on the pristine whiteness of the snow, and steam rose when the hot fluid began to melt the icy blanket. His own breath came out in rapid puffs of steam as he cried, but then he felt a stirring next to him, and opened his eyes to see the familiarity of his yurt instead of the blood drenched snow of his dream.

He hated nightmares. Especially ones like that. He rarely had them, but when he did, it was always about him dying or being helpless. Vivid and clear, and always coming back to haunt him when he least expected it. It wasn’t real though, and after taking a few deep breaths, he allowed himself to come into the present moment with that clarity.

Elain was moving next to his cot, pulling her leggings she shed the night before over her hips. She struggled to get them settled, cursing under her breath, and the leather laces tying them shut were slightly strained. Revas reached out towards her, suddenly needing to feel her, and his fingertips brushed against her bare forearm. She looked up from her legging dilemma at the touch and onto his face.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said quietly, “Dawn is still an hour away. You should get some rest.”

He gave her a wide smile, and pulled her down next to him by her forearm, “Isn’t that what you said to me last night?”

She giggled, making his heart beat faster, and leaned down to place a tender kiss on his lips, “And since you didn’t listen then, I suppose you won’t now?”

He closed his eyes in contentment and remembered her warmth from late in the night, “Nope.”

Elain laughed again --an easy, care fee thing-- and curled her body up next to his in the cot. His fingers brushed her hair, her face, her shoulders, and she rewarded him with a sweet sigh. They let the quiet sit between them for a awhile, each content in not saying anything and ruining the peaceful atmosphere that had fallen over them. But something was eating away at the back of Revas’ mind, and he needed to say something while he had the chance.

“So....are we going to talk about this?” he asked her after a few minutes. It seemed like a lifetime ago she had told him, but it had only been a couple of days. And he couldn’t for the life of him stop thinking about it.

“About the Diceni?” she started, the tenderness from her voice now gone, replaced by the authority of the Maiden, “Threlen will have to be neutralized somehow. Discredited perhaps. I know he held his hunters back too long on purpose, but I have to prove it before I can bring it up again. I made a terrible mistake of not realizing that earlier. But even if I do discredit Threlen, Aneth’ail is still here. He’s beyond reproach and has Paeris’ ear.”

It was his turn to sigh; one full of exasperation at Elain --once again-- failing to grasp the importance at hand in favor of preserving her own standing.

“I meant the baby.”

She sat up abruptly, and swiftly flung her legs over the side of the cot. Her entire demeanor changed, and as he reached out to touch her again, she flinched away.

“What about it?” she asked him coldly as she stood up, resuming getting dressed, “There’s nothing to discuss. It’s going to happen and it’s going to ruin everything I’ve built up.”

“Avoiding it won’t make it go away,” he pointed out.

“You think I don’t know that?” she shot back at him, “There’s nothing I can do about it, so I don’t even know why you’re bringing it up.”

“I’m bringing it up because this is more than just a nuisance, Elain,” he sat up in the cot as he grew angry with her insistence on ignoring it, “It’s our kid. Don’t you think that’s something we should talk about?”

Elain pulled her cloak around her shoulders, tying it shut tightly, “What do you want me to say, Revas? That I’m excited to have a child? That I’ve always dreamed of having a family and raising lots of little babies with you? Do I look like Nellia and her ilk with their inane clucking over the _‘cute babes’_? Do you really think I want to spend my days with a mouth on my breast while the world passes me by? I’m not going to lie and pretend this is what I want.”

“You don’t have to lie or pretend about anything,” he rose out of the cot and walked to the chest that held his clothes. He opened it up and roughly grabbed a pair of his pants and slipped his leg inside, “You might want to open your eyes and realize that you aren’t the only one in this though.”

She spun around so quickly that her cloak billowed out and swirled around her feet, “I’m sorry, did I miss you having uncontrollable nausea and back spasms while this...this…”

Her eyes fell on her abdomen, and he watched her as he pulled a wool undershirt over his head.

“While this child grew inside of you? While it made you lose control over your life as you watched everything you’ve worked for slip between your fingers? You have nothing to lose in this, and it’s making you too sentimental.”

He shook his head at her willful obliviousness, “Un-fucking-believable. I have nothing to lose? Don’t you remember when The Last Breath got caught breaking his oaths and had his Shadow kill his mistress? The Breath got exiled. His Shadow _got executed_. Remember that when you fret over whether or not Papae Vhannas’ can stop you from being sent to another clan. There’s _no one_ to protect me.”

“Keep your voice down!” she whispered angrily at him, “The camp has ears everywhere, even more so now with the Diceni here.”

Revas barked a laugh, louder than he expected, but he couldn’t help himself. She was on roll with her self-centeredness this morning.

“You certainly didn’t care about keeping quiet last night. I guess it’s different when you’re moaning my name though, huh?” he closed the space between them and stared down her smaller frame, refusing to be cowed by her patronizing, “Or maybe you just can’t think straight when you’re getting fucked. Is that what you’re going to tell Vhannas when he finds out what you’ve been doing? _‘Oh Papae, I just can’t make rational decisions when I’m bent over against a tree!_ ”

Tears sprung to her eyes immediately at his mocking, and her lip quivered in anger. His stomach twisted at the sight and he regretted it.

“You’re an asshole,” she threw the words at him from between clenched teeth, her entire chin quaking, and she stalked out of his yurt in a fury. The wicker hanging over his entrance slammed behind her, and he was left alone in the cold of the dark morning.

Revas stood in a haze of anger and loathing after she left --mostly at himself. The situation could not have gone worse if he had intentionally tried. The taste of regret was bitter on his tongue, and he wished he could take it all back and return to the quiet peace they had when he woke up. He sat back down on his cot, the smell of her hair still lingering all over it, and set his face in his palms.

 

\--

That evening, they met with the Inquisition to give a final report to Sar’een. Elain also wanted to ferret out any information they might have on Lokka and Donovan. She felt this was not over yet, and Revas agreed. Lokka was ruthless and soulless. He wouldn’t stop at this setback. They sat in her yurt, waiting for Deshanna to finish her private discussion with the Inquisition agent, and the smell of dinner cooking and hunters laughing filled the air.

But the air in the yurt was tense. Aneth’ail had insisted on joining them for their interrogation of the Inquisition agent, and he sat next to Elain near her cot, speaking in hushed tones over the amount of operatives the Inquisition still had in the valley. Revas sat on the cushions on the floor with Sarrion, stuck babysitting in case he embarrassed Elain in front of the Hand of Vengeance.

She still wouldn’t meet his eye. When they fought normally, it never bled into their work. Elain was always the professional, always putting on the mask of cohesion so that they looked like a united front working together for the good of the clan. His words had cut her so deeply she didn’t even try tonight. It made him nervous, and it made him miserable.

“Things really haven’t changed here at all, have they?”

The voice drew him out of his brooding, but he wasn’t appreciative. He ground his teeth together at the question, and prepared himself for more to come. Once Sarrion opened his mouth, it was hard to shut him up.

“I mean, everyone looks old and ragged now, but here we are, sitting and waiting for something to happen instead of actually doing anything. The more things change, the more they stay the same,” he finished, his own impatience painting his voice.

“Not even two days ago, we were fighting off human invaders with our lives. Tell me again how we aren’t doing anything,” Revas snapped at him.

“Those invaders came from somewhere though, right? Isn’t getting to the bottom of that more important than going through all these motions? The rituals and the grand standing and all that bullshit is just distracting you from the bigger threat,” he responded off-handedly.

“And I suppose you’d know what that bigger threat is?” he shot back.

Sarrion grinned widely, “As a matter of fact, I have a very good idea of exactly what you’re facing. But someone told me not to open my fucking mouth.”

“And yet, here you are, not listening as usual.”

He gave Revas a laugh, but turned his attention to Elain and Aneth’s conversation, “Some things _definitely_ haven’t changed. Elain is still the biggest tragedy since the Dales.”

“And why is that?” Revas asked him as he watched her speak with the Hand. He knew he shouldn’t have pressed him, but he was curious.

“Because a woman like that,” Sarrion gestured towards her, running the palm of his hand through the air in a curvaceous movement, “Was not made to be celibate. She likes to be worshiped too much. Oh, the things I would do to her if it wouldn’t get my head disconnected from my body…”

His patience already gone, he gripped the collar of Sarrion’s shirt and yanked him closer to him.

“One more word,” Revas whispered darkly, “One more. And the Inquisition won’t be able to find all the pieces I’ll leave you in.”

Sarrion grinned widely at him, “So touchy! Did I hit a nerve, Shem’assan?”

He clenched his fist in the fabric of the his shirt, ready to hurt the instigating little shit, but they were interrupted by Deshanna and the agent’s arrival. Revas released Sarrion and gave him a look that spoke volumes. Sarrion’s grin only grew wider, and he licked his teeth before turning his eyes on Elain again. Revas’ blood boiled.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” the Keeper apologized as she entered, “Agent Emberly here was being very gracious and informing me on the health and well-being of our First.”

“And how is she?” Elain asked this Agent Emberly, who looked utterly out of her element among such an foreign culture. Leave it to Sar’een to send the person who’d never seen a Dalish elf to save them.

“The Inquisitor is doing well. She is burdened with many responsibilities and duties, of course, but she handles them with grace and dignity. The nobles of Orlais and Ferelden are delighted with her abilities.”

“Naturally,” Elain responded dully, “They think us all savages living naked in the forests, but as you can see, Agent, we are more than familiar with the machinations of political maneuvering.”

“So I’m beginning to realize,” the agent responded, “And you are?”

“Oh, I apologize! Where are my manners?” Deshanna said hurriedly, “This is our Maiden. Next to her, the Hand of Vengeance from Clan Diceni. And you know our Banal’ras.”

She jutted her chin out towards him on the floor, and the agent scowled.

“Yes. We met,” the agent said bitterly, “He’s the one who has been harassing the guide we hired to help us find you.”

He opened his mouth in argument, but Elain cut in, “You must understand, Agent Emberly. Sarrion has a...reputation...among the clans. His arrival is not a joyful occasion.”

“I don’t really care about your squabbles,” Emberly said, “What I care about is getting back to the task at hand. We were sent to make sure that the raiders didn’t wipe you out, to confirm your ability to defend yourselves if they come back, and to find out who the raiders are. We’ve done that, so there’s no reason for you to hold me anymore.”

“What makes you think we are holding you?” Aneth asked her, “Is the Inquisition so paranoid that they believe the clan that they saved would hold them hostage?”

The agent frowned at him, “No, but my mission has been done since yesterday, and yet, here I am. Being led around like a horse.”

“Surely you understand that we must protect ourselves, Agent Emberly. These raiders were bought for the sole purpose of wiping our clan off the map of Thedas. We are apprehensive of humans in any case, and it should be very clear why,” Elain’s voice was gentle but her eyes were as cold and hard as stone.

“Even if those humans saved you?” the agent questioned.

“Even so,” she replied, “We need to know who these raiders were and where they came from. Any help you could provide would go a long way towards building goodwill with our clan….and the Inquisitor.”

“You already know the majority of what I know. The raiders were bought by Lokka and led by this Captain Donovan,” Emberly said, “Donovan is from Kirkwall and trained with the City Guard. He left the Guard about 7 years back and started working for Lokka. And that’s it. No motives, no paper trail. This is how Lokka operates and the Inquisition isn’t the only organization that’s tried to hunt him down.”

“There’s nothing else you can tell us?” Aneth implored.

“No,” the agent said firmly, “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to get back to my operatives. They had no idea they’d be stranded here on your whims.”

Aneth glanced at Elain swiftly, and nodded his head, “Of course, Agent Emberly. Deshanna will have you fed and outfitted while we prepare some scouts to lead you back.”

The agent eyed him suspiciously, “And Sarrion?”

Everyone in the room looked on him -- the elf with the vallaslin that was obviously not one of them -- but it was Aneth who spoke up.

“He will go back with you, of course. We do need to keep him under watch until you leave, however. There is animosity for a reason.”

The agent glanced between Sarrion and Aneth, but didn’t care enough to fight for him. She nodded towards Deshanna, and the Keeper guided her out of the yurt and back into the camp. Revas was confused as to why she left him without a fuss, unless he truly did not know anything. It wouldn’t surprise him though. Sarrion was known for his boasting but not for his honesty.

“Ah, now it’s time for the real interrogation, I take it?” Sarrion leaned back on the soft cushions Elain had provided him, “I’m not used to so many people at once, but I will always make an exception for you, Maiden.”

“This isn’t a joke, seth’lin,” Aneth stood up and walked over to him, his hand clenched at his side, pulsing with magical energy, “It would be in your best interest to speak with us truthfully.”

“I take it back; I’ll take you and Revas, but this guy has to go,” Sarrion huffed, “I’m not a fan of magical fists.”

“You’re in no position to negotiate,” Revas said as he got up to stand next to Aneth, “What do you know about Lokka? About Donovan?”

Sarrion bit his lip pensively, “Hmmm...Lokka? Donovan? Nah, doesn’t really ring a bell.”

This time, Revas ignored his clothing and yanked Sarrion off the ground by his hair. The smaller elf gave a yelp and flinched in pain, but it was short lived, and the infuriating grin returned.

“Try again,” Revas ordered him, jerking his head sharply.

Sarrion looked in between him and Aneth to see Elain, still sitting on her cot, her posture unchanged, her eyes watching every move carefully. The smile that lit up his face just made Revas more angry, and he pulled backwards on Sarrion’s head to avert his gaze.

He laughed again, and it was full of an ambiguous mirth, as if he was the only one in on the joke.

“She won’t even look at you, Shem’assan,” he snorted, “You must have pissed her off royally.”

He pulled Sarrion’s face into the ground and rubbed it against the rough, woven covering on the floor.

“Tell us about the raiders,” he said through gritted teeth. It didn’t stop his laughter.

“Pissed her off really good. What’d you do? Make eyes at a prettier girl?” Sarrion choked out, “Or was she just getting tired of you fawning over her like a dog? Even a Maiden can only take so much pathetic slobbering.”

He slammed his fist into the back of his head before he even knew was he was doing. All he did know was that he was angry, so angry, and this little shit wouldn’t shut his mouth. But the punch only earned him a grunt and more laughter.

“That’s it, isn’t it? She’s tired of your pining away and wants someone who can actually get the job done,” he turned his head on the ground to face Elain, “Don’t worry Maiden. I live to serve, and I would serve you well. For whatever you needed.”

The next blows were harder and completely unhinged. There was something about his grating voice, the way he talked to Elain, and that fucking smirk that drove him over edge. He turned Sarrion over -- his face staring at the ceiling of the yurt -- and continued his onslaught, punishing him for not knowing how to keep his mouth shut. The knuckles turned bloody, and so did Sarrion’s face, and the rage spilled over until not even bloodshed was enough.

“Revas, stop!” Aneth pulled him off the smaller elf, tightly holding his arms behind his back. If it had been anyone else, Revas might have been able to break free, but The Hand had the magical means to keep his restrained. He still struggled and fought Aneth, determined to stop Sarrion from opening his mouth ever again.

“Get him out of here, Aneth. I’ll deal with this,” Elain commanded over the cloud of rage Revas had worked himself into, and Aneth pulled him outside and away from his prey.

“I’ll kill you, Sarrion! _**I will kill you!**_ ” he shouted as he was dragged fighting into the cold night air, “ _You won’t be laughing much longer!_ ”

Revas knew he would be reprimanded, knew he’d be punished, and he almost wanted it. Wanted something to make this hatred he was harboring go away. But as he felt the harsh heat of Aneth’s fist subduing him, he knew no amount of justice would calm this anger. Sarrion was merely an object to focus his fury on, not the cause.

She wouldn’t look at him, and the hatred that burned wasn’t for anyone but himself.

\--

 

“If you wanted to be alone with me, you only needed to ask,” Elain said slowly, listening to the scuffle outside as Aneth struggled to reel Revas in, “That was unnecessary.”

“He started it,” Sarrion spit the blood pooling in his mouth on the floor, “Guy can’t take a joke for anything.”

She stood up and walked to a crate in the corner of her yurt, reaching in to pull out an old wine bottle. Grabbing a cup from her small table, she poured the vintage inside and handed the tin cup to him. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and took a deep drink.

“I would prefer if you didn’t antagonize my Shadow, if it’s all the same to you,” she sat back down on her cot, stretching her limbs and reclining along of the length of it. She watched Sarrion’s eyes follow the lines of her body with great interest.

This would be too simple.

“Despite his short temper, he is the only reason I’m alive right now. I owe him my life and care about him deeply,” she let her hand fall on the curve of her hip, and she fingered the belt sitting there, “But I am perfectly willing to speak to you without having him present, if that helps.”

A mischievous glimmer lit his eyes and he peeled himself off the ground to move closer to her.

“It helps very much,” he said as he approached her and crouched next to her cot, “Tell me what you want to talk about, Maiden.”

“I would like to know what the Inquisition knows,” she purred, and the tips of his ears reddened at the sound of her voice, “And I find it hard to believe you don’t know anything.”

“And why is that?” he asked her, his wide grin back on his face, but covered in blood.

She lifted the corners of her mouth slightly, giving him a ghost of a smile, “We both know how you are, Sarrion. Before you were moved from Lavellan, everyone had to work very hard to hide their secrets from you. You have a way of...persuading things out of people.”

“I’m so flattered you remembered after all these years,” he said to her quietly, inching his face towards hers. He was playing a dangerous game, but Elain needed the information, “Do you want to know a secret of mine?”

“Isn’t that what we’re establishing?” she replied quietly, his breath hot on her cheek.

He brought his hand up and dragged the back of it over her shoulder softly, “My secret is that I’ve thought of you very often since the Keeper kicked me out. Elven girls out in the shemlen world are nothing compared to you.”

Elain brought her hand to Sarrion’s jaw, stroking it lightly with her fingers, before grasping it tightly and forcing him to look at her in the eyes.

“We both know that’s a lie, Sarrion. You haven’t given me a single thought since you left,” she said sharply before letting her hand drop. She sat up and got out of her cot, leaving him sitting on the floor, staring up at her in amusement. Sarrion always did lie to get what he wanted.

“Not entirely a lie, Maiden. There really are no women out there quite like you,” he smiled at her, the mirthful grin gone, replaced by something more familiar, more approachable. She crossed her arms over each other and stared him down.

“I know. Now, tell me about the raiders.”

He let out a deep sigh and the smile left his face as he reached for the cup of wine she poured him. He took another deep draught, and set the cup back down gently.

“You already know the raiders were hired by Lokka. What you don’t know is who hired Lokka,” he looked at the ground as he spoke, obviously not excited to being sharing the information, “Talk around the Free Marches is that there’s trouble in Wycome. A ‘ _knife-ear plague_ ’ running rampant and making humans sick, but elves seem to be immune to. The Duke of Wycome might have needed to seem like he was dealing with the problem, and Clan Lavellan might have been the target of his witch hunt. Nothing is written in stone; this is all supposition from the Inquisition operatives.”

Elain furrowed her brow in thought, “Why wouldn’t Agent Emberly be willing to share that information with us?”

“You know how humans can get with elves. They want to confirm the elves aren’t actually causing the problems in Wycome,” he said offhandedly, as if it were the easiest thing to understand, “Besides, Revas and the other hunters haven’t really helped with warming her up, either.”

“Hmmm,” she mumbled a response, but was deep in thought. Elain began to pace her yurt, walking the length of it while she contemplated the situation. If the clan was being made into a scapegoat for the humans in Wycome, this attack would not be the last. They were still exposed, still vulnerable, and she needed to think of something quick to get the upperhand.

Sarrion grabbed the bottle of wine she left out and poured himself another cup. She wasn’t sure how he got his information, but he was a useful informant if he could be convinced to work with her. Elain hoped Revas hadn’t ruined that as well.

“I need you to go to Wycome for me, Sarrion,” she stated as she stopped her pacing, “You will find out the state of things there for me. Make some allies, make some enemies, and get to the bottom of what is going on in the city.”

He nearly spit out the wine he was drinking. Wiping the spittle from the corner of his mouth while trying not to laugh, he got up from the ground.

“I’ve got a couple of folks actually willing to fuck me back in Kirkwall. Why would I go to Wycome for you?”

The facade of warmth towards her fellow kin was dropped, and she stared him down coldly. She began to pace again, this time much slower, her eyes not leaving him, a huntress stalking her prey.

“Because I find myself in a very precarious position at the moment. It hasn’t escaped your notice that Clan Diceni is breathing down my neck. They are also trying to usurp me from the title I rightfully earned. I won’t have it,” she lectured him, and to his credit, he had the sense to listen, “There is still a bounty on your head from several clans; some of our sister clans being among them. Unloading an entire quiver of arrows into a helpless halla herd and killing a dozen of them is not something many clans let go lightly. The Daughter of the Path would personally sing my praises until the end of time if I delivered your head to her.”

“Maybe if those clans hadn’t bounced me around and kept me from hunting, I wouldn’t have done it,” Sarrion said ominously, his mirthful demeanor gone entirely, “I’m not surprised the clans have a long memory though. Always hanging onto the past like it’s important.”

“None of us can run from our past actions, Sarrion,” she responded bluntly, “Not even you. I can let you leave, unharmed and unfollowed, but my munificence ends there. Remember that I have eyes all over the Free Marches --including Kirkwall. My father is a very powerful man and despite what Clan Diceni thinks, the title of Maiden still carries weight with merchants and clans alike. If you listen to my instructions and act on them accordingly, my word will go a long way for you , Sarrion.”

“To what end? So that the clans don’t want to skin me alive?” he scoffed, “No thanks. I could care less about the Dalish.”

She stopped in front of him and leaned into his ear slowly, deliberately.

“Do not forget that my Shadow listens to my word as law. And he is all too eager to spill your blood,” she whispered into his ear, and she could see the sweat forming at his temples, “All I have to do is say the word, and a piece of you will be on every tree and rock in the Free Marches.There will be no body left to find.”

“So you’re telling me...I become your informant in Wycome, or you’ll have me killed?” he asked her in disbelief. But then the grin came back, wicked and shining, and he shook his head with amusement, “Oh Elain, we would’ve made quite the pair if you could’ve seen past the Mantle.”

Elain backed away from him and grabbed the wine cup from his hand, taking a drink herself.

“I have no patience for cowards,” she chastised him, “And there is nothing past the Mantle. The sooner you learn that, the sooner this arrangement will work in your favor.”

He laughed gently, “When you call it an arrangement, it almost sounds like I have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Sarrion. Either take your chances with the clans and Revas, or try to show that you actually have something worth saving.”

“We’ll see about that,” he mumbled.

She untied her cloak and set it over the edge of her cot, “I’m a very busy woman, and have other plans and meetings to attend to. You will set yourself up in Wycome after you lead the Inquisition out. I will expect regular reports from you, disguised as letters to a relative. Give me the atmosphere of the city, and keep an eye on any issues that may arise. If I don’t received any word from you, I will assume you have gone awol and I will let Revas hunt. And you do not want that; his quarry usually ends up with their heads on pikes.”

Sarrion went to open his mouth in response, but she stopped him with a hand in the air.

“You’re dismissed.”

“What? No goodnight kiss after you’ve fucked me over?” he asked, “This doesn’t bode well for our budding romance, Elain.”

“I said you’re dismissed,” her voice brooked no argument.

She watched as he gave her an exaggerated bow, then left her yurt without another word, and she let out a breath of relief. Despite her faltering with the Diceni, she still had enough pull to get her eyes on Wycome. Lokka would not stop until the clan was gone, and she needed to be ready. She would not be caught unawares again.

The evening was swiftly passing, dinner long over, and the nausea she seemed to get at the same time every night returning, but she still had work to do. Deshanna must be debriefed, Den must be checked on, Aneth’ail will want to know Sarrion’s whereabouts, and Revas must be dealt with. The Mantle was still hers, and for as long as she had it, she would not give it up without a fight.


	17. Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain's friends work to help her regain her footing; Sar'een struggles with feeling alone

Twig watched the Diceni hunters on the training grounds carefully, always mindful that they could be watching him just as intently. He never let his eyes linger, never let his pauses be more than a few heartbeats, never watched any one group for too long. Sorn walked the grounds along with him, having to use his cane today, slowing them down a bit. The cold made the leg injury worse, and winter in the Vimmarks was as cold as death. He knew it was a struggle for his friend, but Sorn was better at playing into the politics than he ever was as a hunter. 

And that’s why Twig was dragging him along as they hunted the training grounds. The assignment was simple: find a promising mark, and bring them under the Maiden’s eyes. It was a gamble, and a task she would only entrust to her closest allies. Twig hated the necessity of it, but he liked the way of life before the Diceni came. If Paeris took over, that way of life would be gone forever. So here he was, looking at the bowman and the skirmishers, sizing them up, trying to find a weaker animal for Elain to sink her teeth into. 

“You know, Sorn, a weak link really isn’t going to do much good,” Twig said quietly to his friend, “The Diceni have no respect for hunters who can’t pull their weight. Turning a spineless one isn’t going to earn her any useful information.”

“I know that,” Sorn replied under his breath, “Plus look around; Threlen didn’t bring any weak hunters. Not for a mission like this. Our best bet is to find someone--”

He stopped and pressed his palm against Twig’s chest, stopping him as well. His eyes fell on a huntress sparring with a hunter twice her size in width and circling around him with two blunted daggers. The hunter held a blunted halberd and kept the huntress at a distance with it. Other hunters -- both Diceni and Lavellan -- gathered around them to watch the match, making it easy for Twig and Sorn to blend in. The hunter lunged the halberd towards the huntress, keeping his stance tight, but she dodged the lunges easily, shifting her shoulders so swiftly that it surprised Twig.

“Who is that?” he asked one of the nearby Diceni. The Diceni smiled widely.

“Sellarin,” she said gaily, “Fastest blades on the steppes. And she’s sparring against Darvel. Best pole bearer. Should be an interesting match!”

“Not too interesting; the hunter with the halberd has the range on her. She’ll never get close enough to him to win,” Twig observed. 

The Diceni laughed cheerfully, “You don’t know Sellarin! Just watch!”

And so he did. He watched the huntress stay just within the halberd’s range, waiting for a swing or a jab to knock her down. She circled around the hunter and his farther reaching weapon as he tried to make up his mind on what to do. Her feet were fast, but the pole bearer was well grounded. Still, he had the advantage in the fight. 

The hunter swung the halberd swiftly and purposefully, swiping at the huntress, intending to make a quick end to the match. Sellarin shifted her weight and evaded with a steady hop, but was nearly caught when the hunter re-centered himself and lunged the halberd forward, nearly striking her with the capped spike at the weapon’s end. She swiftly ducked out of the way, but this Darvel was quick as well. He swung the halberd towards her midsection and it looked like the match was already over. 

But the huntress spun out of the way, hitting the tip of the halberd hard with her dagger. The pole bearer’s weight shifted, and the huntress took her chance. She seized the wooden pole, shoving the halberd to the side aggressively, then closed the space between her body and the hunter’s with lightning speed. Before the hunter could recover, her blunted dagger pressed against his gut, and a wide smile spread across his face. 

Loud cheers and laughing erupted when the gathered onlookers saw the huntress had won the fight, and Twig even found himself clapping at the display. She was fast and clever, a good sign.

“We’ll wait to get her alone and talk to her,” Sorn whispered in his ear, “She’d be perfect.”

“If Elain can turn her,” he whispered back, much less confident, “She hasn’t been on top of her game lately.”

Sorn merely nodded his agreement. 

They waited for the training grounds to clear for the afternoon, and Twig felt his stomach protest as the smell of roasted game over the hearths entered his nostrils. He had talked idly with other hunters, asking Diceni about their trip into Autini, trying to ferret out what he could. None of them gave him good information, and there seemed to be conflicting thoughts on Warlord Threlen’s strategy when they had come into the valley. A waste of his time, and his hunger only made him irritated. 

“Look,” Sorn nudged him. The huntress was finally leaving the grounds, her daggers tucked neatly at her sides, sweat pouring off her face. She was dedicated, he’d give her that. 

The two moved in unison towards her as she walked outside of the training grounds, likely towards their water source. A quick bath before lunch, or maybe just a splash to perk her back up. It really didn’t matter, as long as they could get her talking. 

The huntress looked over her shoulder to see them following her, and cocked an eyebrow.

“You boys want something?” she asked them, not slowing down to talk to them. Sorn was falling behind due to his leg, but Twig jogged to catch up to her. 

“Just a little chat,” he said jovially, “We were impressed with your fighting. Never seen a dual wielder take down a pole bearer like that before.”

She grinned at him as they approached the semi-frozen stream that ran next to the camp. He heard Sorn behind them, attempting to catch up, but he didn’t want to waste a minute.

“Ol’ Darvel thinks he’s invincible with that thing. I’ve been training for months to prove him wrong,” she bent down towards the creek and scooped up a handful of cold water to splash on her face, “Name’s Sellarin.”

“Twig,” he introduced himself, “My friend just joining us is Sorn. Nice to meet you.”

She looked back over her shoulder towards the two of them as Sorn limped to his spot next to him. 

“Likewise,” she said gruffly, “Funny name you got there.”

He gave a chuckle, “Thanks. Got it for snapping a boar’s back. _Like a twig_.”

“Clever,” she stood up and away from the creek, and turned around to size up the two, “So what do you want to chat about?”

“We got this friend,” Twig thought quickly, trying to come up with something to draw her in, “Real tough guy. Thinks he’s the greatest thing since the Dales and the best hunter in the clans. We want to prove him wrong.”

He grinned at Sorn, trying to urge him into the lie.

“Yeah, the guy is a real jackass. We call him Shem’assan because he’s always running headfirst into a fight like an idiot,” Sorn backed him up. 

“Sounds like a winner,” Sellarin said dryly, “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Beat him at his own game,” Twig explained, “Come out hunting with us. Show him that he’s not as good as he thinks he is.”

Sellarin pursed her lips in thought, then crossed her arms over one another, “Not interested.”

She began to walk away and Twig felt the plan slipping through his grasp. She was tough. But he wasn’t about to give up. 

“Guess Shem’assan’s right, Sorn. Women really don’t have the backbone to stand up to him. Maybe Darvel would be interested instead...”

The huntress stopped dead in her tracks and twisted herself around so fast, Sorn flinched. 

“Anything Darvel can do, I can do ten times better,” her fingers danced over the hilt of her daggers, “When do you want to hunt?”

Twig’s smile spread across his face, and his eyes lit up in excitement.

“Tomorrow. An hour before dawn. Meet us right here, and we’ll show Shem’assan how a real hunter works.”

The hook had been baited and all Elain had to do was catch the fish. 

\--

“I’m sorry, da’len, but with all the turmoil of this shem war and my First being in the Emerald Graves, I can’t afford to send any hunter with you; whether he wants to go willingly or not,” Keeper Hawen lectured Sar’een next to the weather-beaten lead aravel at their camp.

There was no sprawling land here full of yurts and fires and training grounds and artisans working in the Exalted Plains. More importantly, there were very little Dalish at all. Keeper Hawens’ clan was no more than fifty people, their halla herd was weak and small, and there were only two children she saw running back and forth over small creek, splashing water at each with squeals.

It devastated Sar’een. She had hoped coming to the Dales and seeing other clans would give her some perspective, help her remember what she was fighting for. All it did was make her question why she fought at all. Everything here was in ruins. Her people’s past and their future, crumbled and trodden under the Orlesian boot. And the clans here languished in that failure, clutching desperately to the ruins in hopes that it made them seem like they were still standing. Battered, haunted, suffering, but as long as they stood…

This was not like her clan at all. They wallowed instead of grew, a festering wound threatening to take the arm if they didn’t stifle the disease. But the Keeper was stubborn and unyielding, frustrating Sar’een further.

“Keeper, Loranil wants to make a difference. He can help the Inquisition in ways he can’t help here. Corypheus is looking for Elvhen--”

Hawen turned and walked away from her, his steps swift and his demeanor suddenly hostile. She worried she had overstepped her boundaries. Despite being the Inquisitor, among the Dalish, she was still a First on sabbatical. Deference for a Keeper was an important custom, no matter how repellant she found the Orlesian clans’ isolation and superiority complex. There was a weight and respect that she should’ve given him, even if it didn’t feel sincere anymore. Sar’een moved to correct her mistake.

“Please Keeper,” she pleaded, following closely behind him. Her companions stayed near the camp, understanding that this was hers to make right. They would merely fumble.

“Do you know what the clans are saying about you, Inquisitor?” he didn’t stop walking and she struggled to keep up with him as he strode towards the site of Bellanaris. She shook her head.

“The Chantry’s pet. A spectacle. A fool,” he said sternly, and she winced at the words, “You may wear the vallaslin, but you are the figurehead for the very organization that left our ancestors destitute and broken. You speak for their god while Clan Shamvishal starves. You lead their armies while Clan Aureles is chased off their hunting grounds by the Orlesian civil war. Even your own clan suffers at the human’s whims while you sit safe and comfortable in your mountain fortress, prioritizing the shemlen’s concerns. You no right to tell me how a child of my clan can help this world.”

The words shocked her and she stopped suddenly, stunned. Sar’een had assumed the clans would be happy with her ascension. She thought it would improve their lot with the humans now that they believed her to be a savior. It was clear that she was wrong.

“I..I’m sorry, Keeper. I didn’t mean to assume…” she started in apology. 

“Well, you did. Assumed that because you were born Dalish that we would all fall over ourselves to kneel to your authority,” he interrupted her, “You are Dalish in name only. We know whose banner you wave, and the Last of the Elvhen do not forget that.”

She fought to hold back the tears that threatened to come. Sar’een would not falter in front of her own. 

“I don’t expect you to,” she explained, “I never wanted that. I just wanted to be trusted that I had the best interests of our kin at heart. Loranil asked me to speak for him, and I couldn’t say no.”

He looked down on her in pity, “Oh da’len. Have you truly been away from your clan so long that you forget we Dalish value action over words?”

She said nothing, but wouldn’t meet his eyes either. Perhaps she had forgotten.

With a heavy sigh, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. The gesture cut her to the quick. It was so familiar, so like home, and she her battle to hold her tears at bay was nearly lost, “I will consider Loranil’s request if you show us that you still remember the Dalish. I can promise no more.”

The hand lifted, and he left her standing alone as he went back to the campgrounds. She stared at the ruins of Bellanaris ahead of her --where the People’s honored dead lay in eternal rest-- and listened to the ever-present buzzing of flies that seemed to never leave the Exalted Plains. Death was here; in the air, in the soil, in every desiccated corpse that rotted in the sun. It was not the soft taking of an elder in their sleep either. It was the teeth that sank into the neck, the arrow embedded in the back, the knife in the gut, and the frenzy of worms consuming unmourned bodies afterwards.

It seemed to follow her now wherever she went. Even Hawen and his words reeked of death. The death of their People, the starvation and pain, the death of promises. It seemed that was their legacy; bloated bodies waiting to turn to the dust and bones of their empire. 

Sar’een knew despair was taking her again, as it often did ever since she walked out of the Fade. It was cold and it was lonely, and it hurt her profusely. This isn’t what she wanted. She never wanted this. All she wanted was to be part of something. To get out of the stuffy Council yurt and make her own story for a change. 

She didn’t mean to forget who she was.

Instead of returning to the camp with the rest of her companions, Sar’een retread the steps they had taken earlier to find the solitude of the quiet shrine to Sylaise just north of the Dalish. It was not even a ghost of the splendor it had once been, with its paltry offerings and haphazard ritualistic implements, but it was something familiar, and she needed something familiar now that she couldn’t find it with Keeper Hawen and his clan.

She entered the shrine reverently, running her fingers along the stone walls, thinking of what the Dales had been like. A glittering city, a hope of a return, and the comfort of having a home. Or had it been like human cities she had seen? Full of corruption and wickedness, the poor and downtrodden stepped upon like cobblestones on their winding streets. She liked to think her people had been better than that, and yet, the words of Hawen still stung.

Sar’een brushed a spot on the floor of the shrine clean of dust and sat, leaning her back against the wall. The glittering mosaic there was broken and piecemeal, the face of the Goddess long since destroyed, and she stared at it intently, feeling a sense of understanding in that. She felt piecemeal too; a hand of the Keeper carrying the banner of the Chantry, bringing joy and liberation to the human world and fear and resentment to her own. She buried her head in her arms on her knees, the hurt of not knowing what she was anymore washing over her. 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she heard the gentle movement of gravel and stones disrupted as someone found her in the shrine. When she looked up, she was not surprised to see it was Solas striding towards her slowly in the soft glow of the veilfire torches. His face looked hard in that light, and for a moment, she was reminded of Paeris. 

“There you are, Inquisitor. The others were getting concerned,” he spoke softly as he approached her, “Are you alright?”

Sar’een flicked a piece of crumbled stone with her foot idly, “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Solas gave a small laugh and sat down next to her, “No, I would not.”

She shrugged her shoulders and sighed, “Worth a shot anyways.”

“Would you like to talk about what’s troubling you?”

“Not especially,” she told him truthfully, “I know how you aren’t fond of the Dalish. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“I may find the Dalish childish and short sighted, Inquisitor, but that is not how I see you,” he confided to her, “You are different. You are able to see things with clarity that most are not capable of. I would be happy to hear whatever you have to say.”

She furrowed her brow in thought, trying to decide whether to tell him her doubts, her fears, but in her desperation, she didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. This world had not been what she had expected.

“I don’t know who I am anymore, Solas,” she revealed to him, “The humans revere me and my own people resent me. I’m supposed to be a First, eventually a Keeper, the person who protects the clan and the rites and knowledge we’ve gathered. But I’ve been so focused on the Inquisition, I haven’t even given a second thought to how this ordeal was affecting my people. I...I don’t even know if my own clan is alive or dead.”

“Ah,” he said quietly, “And there is the crux of the issue. You are worried for your family.”

She fiddled with the fragments of rocks digging into the soles of her feet, an anxious tick, “I am. We’ve seen so much death lately. It’s hanging over my head, haunting me. The Conclave, Haven, Adamant...I feel like I can’t escape it. It seems like it won’t stop until everything I know is gone. Until every part of me is dead too.”

His face was no longer warm and understanding when the words left her mouth. He seemed to have an air of darkness wash over him, his eyes going hard, his jaw set harshly. 

“That is war, Inquisitor,” he said stiffly, “It takes everything from you and leaves your bones to bleach in the sun. You must harden your heart to it. There will be much more death before this is all said and done.”

“You certainly don’t sugar coat it.”

“And why would I?” he asked her, his voice heavy, “You are intelligent and thoughtful, Lavellan. You understand better than most that excuses and appeasement will not make the truth hurt less. More will die, and you must be prepared for that.”

_What did you think would happen, Little Dove? You are too smart to believe that it wouldn’t hurt._

“I am prepared, Solas. But I won’t numb myself to it,” she argued with him gently, “I don’t want to lose myself in this. I can’t.”

Solas set a hand on her shoulder --the same comfort Keeper Hawen had given-- and looked at her with a mix of admiration and pity. She felt like a child, and she hated it. 

“War has a way of making us forget who we are. Even the greatest leaders must sacrifice part of themselves for victory,” his voice was measured and gentle again, but it didn’t help her feel less patronized, “Be ready to see what you were slip slowly away, as the stream erodes the stone.”

She said nothing, but felt as if for the first time since she met him, Solas didn’t understand. He had seen wars in the Fade, battles both physical and mental, but had he ever had to make the hard decisions? Had other people’s lives ever been in his hands?

He stood up from his spot on the floor next to her and dusted himself off, “I doubt you have never faced death before, being a Dalish elf. Despite their fumbling, your kin know what it is to live on the edge of living and annihilation, and somehow have managed to survive. So will you, Inquisitor. You have a strength in you that could move mountains if you let it.”

Solas left her alone again in the shrine, his lesson taught, and she heard the loud crack of thunder; a storm rolling in outside. She laid down on the hard stone floor, feeling cold and still alone, his words not giving her any piece of mind for once. Instead, it left her unsettled. She let her eyes close, her tears still unshed, and though the bright flashes of lightning filled the shrine, it didn’t stop her from falling into a fitful sleep.

_“What did you think would happen, Little Dove? You are too smart to believe that it wouldn’t hurt.”_

_Sar’een frowned and tried to wipe the tears from her eyes, “I don’t know. I thought saying goodbye would be easier, I guess.”_

_She sat on the floor of Paeris’ yurt, trying to recover from participating in the funeral rites from earlier that day. The heavy torrents of rain still fell outside, and she couldn’t get the vision of the hunter’s lifeless body being covered in the black mud out of her mind._

_“Saying goodbye never is. Death is the Long Shadow that comes for us all, that never truly leaves. As long at the sun brings life, the darkness of Death is sure to follow,” he explained to her as he wrote in his notes. The scratch of the quill against the parchment was nearly drowned out by the sheets of rain falling on the yurt._

_“But it wasn’t like when the elders die,” she said softly, the tears springing up anew, “There’s relief there. Like they are finally finding peace. He had been so young.”_

_“Yes, he was,” Paeris commented sadly, though he did not stop his writing._

_She played with the frayed thread on the hem of the sleeve of her shirt idly, trying to distract herself, but her thoughts were invasive. There were so many questions she wanted answers to._

_“Why didn’t Revas cry?”_

_The scratching of his writing stopped, and she heard the sound of the quill go back into the bowl of ink he kept at the edge of his desk. Paeris moved from his spot at his desk, his robes rustling quietly, and sat on the floor next to her with a sigh._

_“Long ago, in the time of Our Empire, Elgar’nan held onto the blood of His Father, the Sun. He kept it safe, protected by His Hands, who stood watch over the golden box in which The Son of the Sun locked it away. Their numbers were four hundred times four hundred, and their eyes were as black as Death.”_

_“But one day, the All Father grew weary of hearing the stomping of His Hands, and decided to bestow His Father’s Blood upon His worthy Children. He offered it to His most favored Ones to see what they would make of the Source of Creation.”_

_“Falon’din cradled the Blood in His Worthy Hands and used It to create His domain; the Badlands, devoid of life, but for the swarms of locusts ready to consume anything that threatened to grow. He Who Casts the Long Shadow made this place His own, allowing no one in but the lost souls.”_

_“Andruil used Her portion of the Blood to craft a mighty weapon, one that would shake the heavens, and instilled Terror in all the People unworthy of Her Glory who She hunted in Her domain, The Black Forest. The Lady of the Hunt found even more power in the Death She brought swiftly with Her new weapon.”_

_“Elgar’nan was not surprised or delighted with His Children’s use of The Blood. They had turned the Source of Creation into agents of Death, their sole purpose to destroy. He raged from His palace walls, His Voice carrying a scorching light across all of Elvhenan. The People were scared, for The All Father had made their world, and in his Vengeance, He could undo what had been done.”_

_“It was not until Sylaise, She of the Moth, came to Him did his temper abate. She asked Her Father for the last bit of Blood of the Sun, and promised to make something worthy of It. Elgar’nan agreed to Her request, and let Sylaise take the remaining Source of Creation. She took the Source to a an old forest, one who had lived since a time before The People and now suffocated as it had nowhere else to grow, She used The blood to burn it to ashes. Elgar’nan raged at her destruction, believing her to be as tied to Death as her Brother and Sister.”_

_“Patience, She told Her Father. And So Elgar’nan waited, for what is time to those who live in Eternity? He waited and waited, and in many years, the ashes of Sylaise’s destruction nurtured the world underneath, and one day, a single green sapling sprung from the ground, new and fresh. Soon, the entire forest was covered in saplings, and life that had once been old and choking had been reborn into something even more beautiful.”_

_“From that day forward, The All Father favored She of the Moth above all His Children, for Her Wisdom, Her Cleverness, and because She understood that Death was more than an end. It was also a Beginning.”_

_The words had been lilting and gentle --a testament to his ability to keep one’s attention-- but Sar’een had not wanted a story. She wanted some kind of answer, some kind of resolution._

_“What does that have to do with Revas not crying?” she asked him._

_He frowned at her, “Think, Little Dove. Why would I tell you a story about the hope of Life after Death when you asked that question?”_

_“To distract me because you don’t know the answer?” she grumbled mutinously._

_“Because it is a Keeper’s job to offer comfort. Because it is a Keeper’s job to be able to find hope when there is none. And because it is a Keeper’s job to understand the people he or she is responsible for,” he lectured her, “I told you the story because it keeps Death in perspective for the Dalish. For me. For you.”_

_“But it doesn’t tell me why he wouldn’t cry when his father is being sent off! Even I cried when we put the oak branch on him!” she exclaimed, frustrated with his lesson._

_Paeris stood up abruptly, his impatience at her stubbornness today written in his every movement._

_“A hunter is master of his suffering. Heliwr knew this, and so would his son. Revas would not want to disappoint him,” Paeris explained to her as if she were a child again, his voice condescending and stern, “And it is not important to know how someone grieves. What you need to know is how to offer them comfort in that grief. How we mourn is for our own thoughts, no one else’s.”_

_He went back to his writing and she was left with even more questions. She did not like when Paeris tried to direct her away from what was on her mind, and the answer he gave didn’t satisfy her._

_“Well...did you cry when your mother died?” she pressed him. He lifted his head from his work, very slowly, dropping his quill, but didn’t turn to answer her._

_“Go spend time with you parents, Sar’een. I have work to do,” he said coldly, but he did not pick up his quill again to start where he left off._

_She hadn’t meant to upset him, but there was no mistaken that she had said the wrong thing. Part of her still feared her mentor; he was not just a strong mage. His words could also cut as deep as any glass. When he spoke in that voice, that fear came flooding back. She scrambled off the floor and exited his yurt, only pausing when she pushed the wicker hanging open._

_“I’m sorry, Paeris,” she said weakly, “I guess I’m not very good at being comforting.”_

_She ran out into the rain before he could say anything else, and the wet drops of water covered the tears that slipped down her cheeks._

Sar’een returned to the Inquisition camp before dawn the next morning, her back stiff and her hips aching from sleeping in the shrine, and the heaviness of the memories that flooded her dreams weighed upon her. In the months as Inquisitor, she had thought about Paeris less and less, but the night before brought him thundering back into her mind. It was the talk with Solas that triggered it, she knew. They were alike in many ways. Both frustrating when she needed answers, and stubborn in their answers being the only right ones. It made her head hurt.

She all but stumbled into Scout Harding as she tried to find her tent and her comfortable, warm bedroll inside. 

“Inquisitor! There you are!” she said hurriedly, “I have news for you.”

“Is it about the ramparts? I will make sure the Orlesian army is settled in before sending a report back to Skyhold,” she said tiredly.

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Harding said, “It’s actually news that you want to hear.”

She pulled out a piece of parchment, rolled and sealed with the sign of the Inquisition, the kind that ravens carried to each outpost. 

“Here,” Harding handed the paper over to her eagerly, “It’s about the operation in the Free Marches.”

Sar’een furrowed her brow in confusion and unsealed the parchment, unrolling it to read. She recognized the writing right away and felt her heart skip a beat.

_“Da’len,_

_Thanks to your efforts, the human raiders were routed by the hunters and the forces you sent. We are safe for now, and grateful for the aid you provided in our time of need. If only all clans acted with the urgency and courage you did. Lavellan will stay in Autini Valley for now, as it is the most defensible place for us. Andruil Enaste, and may you walk with your head high. You saved us all._

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Deshanna”_

The tears she worked so hard to keep under control the day before came spilling out uncontrollably, and Sar’een hugged the parchment to her chest as tightly as she could.

They had lived. And there was still hope.


	18. Rumor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain attempts to recruit an informant among the Diceni, but things do not go as planned.

Elain’s legs dangled off the fallen pine she had propped herself up on, and the chill in the air made her shut her cloak tightly around her. The sun had not yet risen, making the cold pierce through her, and her teeth chattered. Revas leaned against the large trunk of the pine, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow creased, and his mouth forming a mutinous frown. They had been waiting nearly an hour for their quarry, and the silence between them was deafening. 

He had tried to speak with her on several occasions since that morning, but every time he opened his mouth, all she heard was the words from their last fight. Elain felt he had been unnecessarily cruel, especially knowing how fearful she was of her tenuous situation. It had been unlike her to let things linger between them though. They never stayed angry with one another for long, and she could see her coldness had left him suffering. His eyes betrayed a lack of sleep, and his temper had turned volatile during his time on the training grounds, but the words wouldn’t leave her, and his inability to control his anger did not make her want to put forth the effort to make them leave.

She monitored the situation carefully, but felt a distinct lack of empathy. It’s why they sat in the cold in silence, and it made her resent her situation all the more. 

“Look,” he pointed his chin towards the barely visible path ahead that led into the glade they waited in, then pushed himself off the great trunk of the tree, “They’re coming.”

Twig was leading a huntress into the glade. She was taller than him, but not overly so, and she carried daggers on her waist along with the recurve bow slung over her shoulder. Sharp eyes took in the scene, despite her easy conversation she seemed to be having with Twig, it was apparent she was on high alert. 

Revas had already disappeared into the frozen underbrush of forest, hiding himself among the heavy branches of the pines that surrounded them. He had been louder than she was used to because of his healing leg wound, but he’d get the job done. At least he was always dependable when it came to that. 

Elain sat patiently on her perch of the fallen pine, aware of the importance of this plan going smoothly. If she stumbled now, she might as well throw the Mantle in the Minanter and be done with it. At the thought of losing it, Elain subconsciously gripped the heavy furs that weighed down her shoulders whenever she wore it. The Mantle was keeping out the winter cold as well as her fear of what was to come. And she wasn’t ready to give it up just yet.

“He should be around here somewhere,” she heard Twig say as the walked into the glade, “I, uh, told him to meet us here.”

“Sure you did,” the huntress commented, “Just like your friend who was supposed to come with us was magically having too many issues with his leg. You gonna tell me why you’re dragging me out here alone?”

Twig stumbled over himself, clearly nervous at the huntress’ quick deduction of the situation, and a small smile curled onto her lips. She would be a challenge to turn. Under normal circumstances, Elain would relish in finding a way to break a strong will with just her words, but the situation was dire. She didn’t have the time or the resources to take her apart piece by piece. The more barbaric methods would have to work.

“You’re here because I willed it,” she spoke up, letting her voice carry across the empty grove. Twig and the huntress looked up to see, and the look of relief on her friend’s face was apparent. She loathed involving him --he was more used to working with Revas-- but Sorn wasn’t capable of making the trek and convincing someone he would be taking them hunting. It was just as well. Ever since finding out about her affair, Sorn had been very cold towards her.

Elain let herself drop gracefully down from the tree and walked towards her friend and her prey. Her gaze wandered over the huntress, slow and purposeful, as she sized her up for any weakness. To her credit, the huntress met her eyes brazenly, not intimidated in the least bit. Elain lamented what she would have to do to her. 

“I would ask who you are, but that big ol’ fur coat you’re wearing says it all,” the huntress said wryly, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Maiden?”

She let herself smile warmly at her quarry, “Why, to hunt of course. Isn’t that what my dear friend Twig told you?”

The huntress snorted, “Yeah. He also told me I’d be taking a ‘ _Shem’assan_ ’ down a peg or two. Not one mention of the Maiden hunting with us. I wonder why that is?”

Twig shifted nervously in his place, obviously embarrassed, “Look I --”

“He was merely listening to my orders, as all my faithful hunters do,” Elain interrupted him, “I requested the presence of a skilled hunter from Clan Diceni, and he must have found you to be a good fit. I can already see that his choice was correct.”

“Yeah, flattering me isn’t going to make this less weird,” the huntress said, “And I doubt you really want to hunt. You aren’t even carrying any weapons.”

Elain’s smile spread widely over her face. This huntress was exactly what she was looking for.

“There are some hunts that don’t need weapons. At least not the kind you kill with,” she began, “As a servant to the Mother of Hares, I need to be proficient in all kinds of hunting; for food, for leather, for ritual…” Elain paused meaningfully and narrowed her eyes at the huntress, “....for information.”

The huntress raised her hands in the air in placation, “Look, I haven’t seen anything and haven’t heard anything. I keep my nose clean, so I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

She would’ve been disappointed if she had agreed to share with her immediately. It would’ve made things easier, but it spoke of an ill character. Elain had already swallowed her pride to utilize Sarrion, she preferred to not have to enlist another coward. This meant she would need to work harder to turn her, but the effort would be worth it in the end. 

Elain began to stalk around the huntress, her footfalls soft and lilting, her leather and fur-lined boots making the snow crunch beneath them. It was the only noise in the glade now, and she was delighted at how such an innocent sound could turn so ominous when utilized properly. 

“Tsk tsk,” she started speaking again and the huntress furrowed her brow at her, “Maybe I was mistaken in thinking you were a decent hunter. All of the ones who work under me know how important it is to take in every last detail of their surroundings.”

The huntress said nothing, but did not cower under her gaze either.

“An unprepared hunter makes for a well fed predator, you know,” she said darkly, pausing her well-constructed dance to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. Elain leaned her head only slightly towards the huntress’ ear, but enough to make her tense her shoulders. She wanted to ensure the next words were heard properly. 

“And I am very, _very_ hungry.”

The huntress’ eyes shot open widely, but only momentarily, and then her sharp gaze darted back and forth quickly over the glade. She was searching for something, possibly a way out. Whatever it may be, it would not stop Elain from getting what she wanted.

“So let me be very clear,” she said sweetly as she began to prowl around her quarry once more, “I am the Maiden of the Hunt, and whatever I want, I get. And right now, I want you to give me information.”

The huntress pulled away from her, nearly stumbling over a fallen branch behind her, but recovered herself quickly. 

“Sorry Maiden,” she said firmly, “Not interested. And whether you want it or not, you can’t make me stay here.”

Elain raised one of her eyebrows, “Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so,” the huntress backed away from her and Twig, one of her hands twitching over the dagger at her waist, “I was lied to and tricked into coming here, and I’m not interested in what you’re sellin’.”

“I was afraid you would say that,” Elain said with as much pity she could muster. She gave an exaggerated sigh and deliberately looked into the dense forest at the end of the glade behind the huntress, “Twig wasn’t lying about everything....”

The huntress spun around, pulling her dagger out of her belt when she heard a rustling in the underbrush where Elain’s eyes had fallen. 

“I tried to work with you. Talk to you; huntress to huntress…”

The rustling stopped, but a lone branch on a tree swayed gently, a sure sign that someone --or something-- had been there. The huntress twirled the daggers in her hands, and moved into a defensive stance. 

“But you weren’t willing to cooperate. Now you will have no choice in the matter…”

The trees rustled again, this time dangerously close to where the huntress was standing. When she turned to her left to face it, daggers at the ready, once again, she was met with silence and only the signs of something already moved on. 

“You see, Shem’assan is a little nickname we have for the Banal’ras; an inside joke. And you must know, the Banal’ras is never far away from the Maiden…”

The sun began to rise and spill over the dark forest, and in an act of beautiful dramatic timing, it’s rays reflected briefly off the metal buckle of the belt of the shadowy form that melted back into the trees. It did not escape the huntress’ notice, and she darted quickly behind the fallen pine tree for cover.

“I’m surprised you didn’t anticipate him being here. I was positive everyone knows that when the Maiden wants something and is met with stubborn resistance, it’s her Shadow who gets it for her.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than one tough guy to scare me!” the huntress yelled, before making a dash from behind her cover for the tree line.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Elain warned her, and the huntress slowed down to look at her, “Shem’assan got his nickname for a reason. You’ll have an arrow buried in the back of your neck before you can get anywhere.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said before taking off in a sprint. Elain watched her barrel towards the tree line like a deer trying to escape a wolf. It was a solid plan; once there, she could lose anyone pursuing her in the underbrush. Or, just hope to outrun them. But it wouldn’t come to that. She took a few strides over to the fallen pine tree and leaned up against the trunk. She noticed Twig didn’t follow, and instead watched the huntress nervously. 

When she heard a startled yelp, she knew Revas had cornered her prey. She looked to her left to see the huntress with her blades hanging limply at her waist while he stood resolute at the tree line, underneath a giant conifer, his bow drawn and aimed at her heart. 

“Easy now,” he said, “Keep working your way back to Elain and no one gets hurt.”

The huntress heaved out a sigh, and sheathed her daggers on her belt, “Fine. Let’s keep it cool. It’s not worth losing a limb over.”

“Smart girl,” Elain complimented her as Revas herded her back into the glade, “Now about that information…”

“Can’t you at least make Rev put the bow away first?” Twig asked her anxiously, “This is getting out of hand.”

She shot him a hard look that she knew he’d understand, and to his credit, he backed down right away. It was unlike him to question orders, but he also never usually saw interrogations. He’d learn. 

“Look, you got me on the rocks,” the huntress stated, her eyes set on Elain as she carefully walked backwards and away from Revas, “But I’m still not talking. This _bird_ doesn’t _sing_ without a good reason.”

Everything stilled inside Elain when she heard the words. The huntress had put a direct emphasis on them, and it was done deliberately. There was only one other place she had heard it said like that, and the memory flooded back to her, bright and clear.

_“And how’s your father?” the Sister of the Forge had asked her as Elain sat in her workshop, sipping on the tea Clan Tanaleth harvested from wildflowers that grew in the Frostback Basin._

_“Vhannas is well,” she responded, “He sends his regards and his apologies for the long stretches of time between visits.”_

_“Bah!” Sis waved her hand dismissively, “He says that to everyone he doesn’t want to see. You’d think he’d be a little more grateful after I taught him how to feed a forge right. June only knows how the old craftmaster in Lavellan made anything useful.”_

_She smiled into her cup, “We made do.”_

_“More like ya made a bunch of shit and pretended it was useable,” Sis grumbled, “Filthy northerners and your filthy forges.”_

_Elain laughed, warmed by Sis’ vitriol, and was finally enjoying her stay with Tanaleth -- despite the seemingly endless waves of giant spiders that liked to swarm the lower parts of camp._

_“So, what do you think of our young keeper?” Sis asked her while she sharpened tools on her grindstone, “Bit of tit, right?”_

_“He’s more aware of things than he lets on, I think,” Elain reflected on her meeting with Keeper Athim, “But not much. He worries like a new mother. He indulges far too many Council members in their arguments. He will have to learn not to be an advocate for everyone’s ideas or else he will become an accomplice in their ideology.”_

_“Aye,” she responded gruffly, “Especially with that wife of his.”_

_His wife was Lycanae, a city elf with a Dalish father. The former Black Tongue of Dirthamen, to be exact. While many clans this far south would be against the marriage of a Keeper to a city elf, her being the daughter of a scion gave them pause. Enansalas may no longer be living, and his legacy might be tainted, but no Black Tongue was entirely free of the blackness of their trials. In a battle of which tradition to uphold, the clans always err on the side of caution._

_“She’s quite impressive. Intelligent and charming; a good fit for Athim’s softness,” Elain mused absently, “There’s something unsettling about her smile though. It seems almost...fabricated.”_

_“That’s because the bird sings a different tune for each audience. She probably gave you the ‘_ dutiful respect and piousness’ _mask and thought she was smart for it,” Sis explained, “But let me tell you....that bird doesn’t sing her own song without a good reason.”_

The realization washed over her like an ice bath, cold and sudden, and Elain knew her friend had stumbled into the best possible ally that could be found among the Diceni.

“Twig, go back to the camp,” Elain told him sternly. His jaw dropped open and his eyes widened in fear.

“El, I can’t…” he gave a feeble refusal as he looked between her and the huntress nervously.

“It wasn’t a question, Da’kellen, it was an order. Go back to the camp,” she commanded him harshly. He was crestfallen by the order, his face dropping and his eyes turning red as he held back his panic. She understood his worry, but he couldn’t be here. 

His better judgment won out, and he turned to return the way he came, but not before getting in a last word,.

“I don’t know what you’re going to do here, and I know I’m a coward for walking away. Don’t ask me for anything again,” he said sadly, “I’m sorry Sellarin.”

It was surprising how much his words stung. Using him had not been ideal, but Twig always knew his duty and didn’t question orders. Perhaps even he was seeing her walls crumbling and trying to move out of the way before the foundation went out from underneath them as well. If that was the case, she would need to move quickly. Once the hunters became disillusioned with her, the war would be all but lost.

Revas kept his bow drawn on this Sellarin, but spoke directly to her, “He isn’t used to this stuff. You can’t blame him.”

“I don’t,” she said tersely, “I should’ve used Llyn. He’s much more understanding of necessity. But Twig did his job, and that’s all that matters.”

“No, it’s not,” he said sharply. 

Sellarin cleared her throat loudly, “Uh, not to interrupt or anything, but are you going to take me hostage or torture me or….?”

Elain motioned for Revas to lower his bow, and he looked at her as if she was deranged. 

“There will be none of that,” she assured her, “I doubt this _bird_ will _sing_ with a broken wing.”

The tension left the air almost immediately when Sellarin grinned at her from ear to ear. The understanding passed between them, and Revas released the tension on his bow when he saw the huntress walk up to Elain as if she were an old friend. His face only spoke of confusion.

Sellarin bent low at the waist when she stood in front of her, and when she rose again, her grin was still just as wide, “That was getting hot for minute! Was hoping you’d recognize me before I had to use the pass phrase.” She raised her hand slightly in the air and gave her a little wave, “Sellarin, in case you forgot.”

“You were at Clan Tanaleth the first time we were there,” Elain explained, and a look of understanding lit up Revas’ eyes, “Lycanae introduced us. Your hair was much shorter then.”

Her hand came up to the back of her head and she fiddled with the tight top knot there, “Yeah, had to start growing it out when I got transferred to Diceni.”

“How is Lycanae?”

“Busy saving the world, righting all the wrongs against elvenkind, making Clan Tanaleth’s Council miserable...you know, the usual,” she responded lightly.

“Glad to see she hasn’t changed,” Elain said absently while she peered into the surrounding forest, “I’m guessing you have backup waiting?” 

“Naturally. You’d think I’d walk right into to a meeting with the Maiden and her Shadow without some help?” she said smugly. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she blew harshly, letting out a long whistle. Elain heard a reply from the east, not far away. It wasn’t long before they saw another Diceni hunter emerge from the dense pines and into the glade.

“That’s Darvel, my partner in crime,” Sellarin explained, “Born and raised Diceni, so he’s as dumb as an ox,” Darvel gave a snort at her insult, but she didn’t stop to acknowledge it, “We had a hell of a time getting your boy’s attention.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah. Took a big gamble. Knew you’d be looking to get some ears and eyes on the steppes, so me and Darvel set up a fight to get one of your people’s attention. Took three matches for them to finally see us though,” Sellarin laid out her plan, “Wish I would’ve said something earlier. Twig seems like a good kid. Shame seeing a guy like him get caught up in the wet work.”

“He knows his duty,” Elain brushed off her concerns, “I’m more concerned about yours. What are you doing in the steppes? And what is my brother doing in Antiva?”

Sellarin chuckled before striding to the nearby fallen pine and pulling herself up to sit on the trunk, “Straight to business, eh? You know the drill. Information for information. We never give anything away for free.”

“I know the cost, and I expect the utmost discretion,” she chastised her slightly. It might have been a stroke of luck to find the one spy among all the Diceni hunters, but Elain didn’t find this process nearly as enjoyable as bending a loyal one to her will. It wasn’t about her enjoyment though; it was about survival.

“Sure thing, boss,” Sellarin reclined on the fallen trunk while her partner leaned against it, both of them at complete ease. Once Revas was no longer a threat, it was obvious the need for the facade was gone as well, “So how you wanna play this? I give you a taste?”

Elain motioned for Revas to join her before looking up at the spy, “I need to know what happened to the forces sent to aid us. What stopped them from arriving on time?”

“Figured you’d ask that,” she said, “I know you wanna be right about Paeris delaying us, but it wasn’t his fault. At least, not directly. The Warlord wanted to move as soon as the call came, but the Council wanted to wait for word from the Keeper. He usually wants concessions up front before sending the hunters out. Threlen had a fit, and The Hand of Vengeance had to override the Council’s decision to hold back before his father started a civil war.”

“Hmmm,” Elain turned and looked at Revas, “So Threlen isn’t as in sync with Paeris as we assumed. Is there a rift there we can exploit?”

“The Warlord isn’t about the politicking. He only responds to action,” Revas declared, “The Keeper’s inaction is probably frustrating him.”

“Maybe drive a wedge in between them? Urge Threlen to take the choice out of Paeris’ hands while he’s here?” she thought aloud. 

“Wow, great idea except there’s one little issue,” Sellarin interrupted.

“And what’s that?” Elain pressed her. Darvel shifted uncomfortably.

“There’s rumors running wild among the hunters. From both clans. Might make him less likely to even entertain the idea,” Darvel informed them, “I even heard a joke from some of the Lavellan hunters.”

“What joke?”

He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, “They say, ‘ _What’s the Maiden have underneath that Mantle of hers?_ ’”

She waited quietly for the supposed punchline, but Elain didn’t need to hear it to know where it was going. She was not oblivious to the rumors.

“ _Nothing but her Shadow_.”

“Don’t tell me something I already know,” she shot back sharper than she intended, “Threlen is smart enough to see through baseless gossip and crude jokes.”

Sellarin swung her leg from her perch, as relaxed as if she were in her own yurt, “Which is why you should be worried. He’ll get to the bottom of it, and if there is any truth to the rumors, you better believe he’ll find out. Until he does, you’re suspect to him, and anything that comes out of your mouth will be a lie until he can prove otherwise. So good luck turning him.”

She furrowed her brows in deep thought, all too aware that what the spy was saying was true. 

“So what do you suggest?” she asked Sellarin plainly. 

“Tell me the truth, I take it back to the steppes when Threlen sends us out next week, and start building your reputation there,” she told her bluntly, “If I can spread the dissent with the hunters loyal to Threlen back at home, they’ll be more willing to side with you in any plots Paeris might be brewing.”

“Fair enough,” she affirmed. It wasn’t ideal, but the truth would always find a way out. She’d rather have control over when it got there.

“El…” Revas tugged on her arm gently, “Are you sure about this? How can you trust her? It’s a long ways from the Frostback Basin. She could be a double agent.”

“We don’t have much choice,” she told him quietly, “We can’t hide the truth forever, and I need to take every advantage I can.”

He nodded and let go of her am, letting it dropped back at her side. It was too late before they realized how intimate the exchange had been. Sellarin arched her eyebrow at the display, and Elain knew that no matter what she said, it wouldn’t surprise this spy. She took a deep breath, and willed her heart to not beat out of her chest.

“The rumors of my affair with my Banal’ras are true,” she confessed, “I’ve broken my oaths to my patron.”

“Pssh, yeah, I know,” Sellarin responded flippantly, “Tough guy’s been making puppy eyes at you since we arrived. Not hard to figure that mystery out.”

Elain couldn’t stop the flush that crept to her face in embarrassment. She had thought they were so discreet, but instead they were just a joke. 

“But that’s not enough. I’ve been on the steppes for six years now, and I’m not going to risk mine or Darvel’s ass for something that’s common knowledge. Give me something better.”

“She’s pregnant.”

Sellarin’s bartering stopped abruptly when Revas uttered the words, and silence fell over the glade. It was dark and heavy and crushing and filled with judgment and ridicule, even if there was no sound. She wanted to scream just to make it stop.

The flush burned her face now, and though there were only the two of them, Elain felt as if a thousand eyes had fallen on her at once. It was an embarrassment, a mistake, an irredeemable failure, and despite her trying her best to maintain her composure, the weight of the secret made her fumble, and tears formed in her eyes. Those tears threatened to spill over entirely when Revas reached for her hand and held it tenderly in his.

“Wow. Woooooow. Oh man! _Oh man!_ ” Sellarin made a shocked exclamation as she jumped down from her perch, “Do you know what this means?! Oh shit!”

“I’m quite aware of what it means,” Elain said quietly, defeat tainting her every word. Sellarin stared at her wide-eyed, then shook her head vigorously.

“I really don’t think you do!” she said as she began to pace in front of her rapidly, “Shit shit shit!”

“This is bad, Sel,” Darvel warned her. Sellarin threw her hands up in the air, but continued her pacing.

“You’re telling me! Damn it,” she cursed, “Why’d it have to be a baby? You can hide an affair. You can’t hide a baby!”

“I know that. Do you have information or are you going to keep trotting around like a spooked halla?” Elain asked her sharply. 

“You wanted to know why Keeper Paeris is in Antiva? Okay, fine, let’s do this,” Sellarin took a deep breath, but pressed on, “He’s in Antiva because he’s cementing trade agreements with the clans there.”

“And why is that so pressing? Even our clan has trade agreements,” she scoffed.

“It’s important because every agreement he gets is one Clan Tanaleth loses. He’s offering trade caravans that are fully protected by hunters in exchange for the elimination of contracts with other clans. Clan Banalderas has already agreed to it and it looks like other clans are going to follow suit.”

“And that means Clan Tanaleth loses business with the Antivan clans,” Elain deduced, “As well as their eyes in the north. No superior healing materials from the Antivan swamps, and no more information on the movements of the clans there.”

“Exactly. Paeris knows that Lycanae has her spy network entrenched in the trade route. Kill Tanaleth’s trade, kill Tanaleth’s influence in the north and most importantly...kill the Sister of the Forge’s reach.”

The weathered, frowning face of the Scion of June came clearly to Elain’s mind, “What good does that do? Sis has never been interested in the politics of it. She’s married to the work.”

Sellarin shook her head, “Don’t you get it? There are only a handful of scions working now. All of them have more influence over the clans than some keepers even do. Paeris is looking to weaken them so the clans are more amiable to his ideas about change. Weaken Tanaleth and the Sister? Weaken the lifelines of some clans. Weaken Abersher’al and the Blood of the Embers? Weaken the leadership in the scattered clans. And weaken Lavellan and the Maiden of the Hunt? Weaken the resistance of the independent clans.”

“The clans won’t give up their scions so easily; it’s a tradition older than the Dales,” Revas said ominously, “Paeris is overreaching.”

“He would be, if it weren’t for the world going to ashes and everything getting turned upside down. The clans are suffering after the Breach, and they want stability,” Sellarin explained to them, “The Diceni are offering that. If the clans have to choose between tradition or survival, well….bye bye scions.”

Elain brought her fingers to her temples and rubbed them vigorously as a headache began to spring up. This was worse than she had thought. Paeris using the chaos to further his own plans was so like him, but even she couldn’t condone the destruction of such a long standing tradition. Even if her ambitions were tied directly into those traditions, she would still feel the same. If he took away things that made the Dalish what they are, they might as well just move into alienages and be done with it. 

“And my pregnancy is proof beyond a reasonable doubt that I broke my oaths. Paeris doesn’t even need to work against me. The traditionalists will do the work for him, ” Elain speculated.

“Yup.”

“So you were planted in the steppes by Lycanae to feed her information from the inside? Keep dissent flowing in case the trade deals were suspect?”

“Pretty much. And you just made my job a helluva a lot harder,” she affirmed, “What are we going to do now? Once the Keeper hears about this, he’ll have you stripped of your title and have Lavellan coming into the fray. And once Lavellan is under Diceni’s banner, the rest of the Marcher clans will follow. Then it’s only a matter of time before the Nevarran ones...”

“Keep fueling the dissent. Make that rift between Paeris and Threlen wider,” Revas answered her, surprising the spy, “And start leaking the information about the Maiden’s condition. It’s not some First who made a mistake before being transferred to another clan. This is a scion falling in love with her childhood friend, scorning her oaths for passion, carrying his child in defiance of outdated traditions. Make us the newest love story everyone will want to talk about.”

Sellarin bit her lip as she chewed on his suggestion. The plan was a serious gamble, but Elain knew it was a good one. The only way to fight Paeris was to let the story overtake any criticism he could throw at her.

“I agree,” she said, squeezing Revas’ hand as she did, “If we play our cards right, every clan should be talking about our story like it’s the next ‘ _Keeper and the Hunter_ ’. But it has to spread like wildfire. Once Paeris hears of it, he’ll want to act right away. When he does, he’ll have every Dalish from here to the Anderfels vilifying him for trying to turn the romance into a tragedy.”

Sellarin nodded slowly, “Yeah, get everyone invested and make them want to see a happy ending. _The Maiden and her Shadow_. It’s got action, suspense, a forbidden love, drama...everything we need to make it work.”

“And can you make it work?” she asked the spy.

“Oh, she can make it work,” Darvel cut in, “Sel could convince a mage that living in Kirkwall is like a vacation, so don’t you worry about that.”

“Yeah, I got it covered,” she said, “But you’ve got to handle it here. If your Council isn’t on board, rumors aren’t going to mean a thing.”

“We’ll handle business here,” Elain confirmed, “Just make sure everyone in Ly’s network is aware of the situation.”

“You got it boss,” Sellarin motioned to Darvel, “Now, unless there’s anything else, we gotta get back. Others will be looking for us and we don’t wanna blow our cover before we even step out of this valley.”

“You’re dismissed. May the soles of your feet be firm,” Elain stated the old travelers’ blessing. 

The two started to make their way out of the grove, but Sellarin, turning around and walking backwards, had one more thing to say:

“Nice thinking there, tough guy. Didn’t know you had it in you!”

Elain stood with Revas and waited for the spies to leave, leaning back against the fallen trunk, and closing her eyes as the base of her skull hit the bark. She felt rather than saw him lean next to her, and though she was very tired from the plotting, Elain knew that he would want to talk.

“It was quick thinking,” she murmured softly to him once Sellarin and Darvel were long gone, “I don’t think I could’ve come up with something that good, that fast.”

“Thanks,” was all he said. There was an awkwardness hanging between them, as if they were strangers left alone for the first time. Something had to give.

“We have to tell the rest of the clan soon,” she commented.

“I know,” he replied, “But you don’t want to talk about it. Or to me. Going to be kind of hard to convince anyone that we have the greatest love story ever told when you can’t even look at me.”

“You basically admitted to me that I’m just…” she blurted out, angry that he tried to turn this on her. She caught herself before she lost her cool, “You mocked me. Reduced me to just this...undisciplined, uncontrollable girl driven by lust and nothing else. You do it every time you get angry at me and it makes me sick. You have no respect for me.”

“Just stop,” he raised his voice, “That’s not what I said and not what I think. And I only did it because you don’t care what happens to me in all this!”

“You didn’t say it directly, but your intentions are clear,” she said darkly, not at all intimidated by his rising anger, “And I do care. I just don’t see how pretending to be domestic is going to help either one of us.”

“Talking about the thing that’s going to change our lives forever isn’t being ‘ _domestic_ ’. It’s being practical. You of all people should know that,” he snapped loudly at her, “But since that’s the problem you can’t do anything about, you just want to ignore it. We can deal with Threlen, with Paeris, with the entire fucking world, but you can’t deal with having no control over the threat you feel inside of you. But it’s a _child_ Elain. Ours. Pushing me away isn’t going to work this time!”

“Is this how you plan on treating me then? Making a joke out of me _enjoying my time with you_ whenever I do something you don’t like? Are you going to degrade me every time you feel like I need to be put in my place? I’m not just some hole for you to fuck!”

The last words were shouted, and she felt her pulse beating in her ears and her lip quivering in her anger, tears threatening to burst out again. But she refused to feel bad at her loss of control. He had hurt her, and she had to let him know. Revas’ face softened, some of the redness from his anger leaving, and his eyes fell towards the ground. He gave a deep sigh then looked back up at her.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it okay? I was mad. Frustrated. And you always win these stupid arguments. The only way I get to fight back is by bringing it up,” he admitted to her, “But I know it’s not right. And I know it’s not how I feel about you. You drive me crazy, Peach.”

“It’s not my fault. I’m not making you say these things,” she protested. He stepped in front of her and brought his hand to the back of her neck. 

“What I mean is, I do stupid shit because I can’t think straight with you. Everytime I think I have you nailed down, you do something that knocks me off my feet,” he brought his face close to hers, “And then I just say and do the first thing that comes to my head to try and recover. It never works. I don’t try to hurt you, but I do.”

Her lip tightened as she fought to control her tears.

“So I’ll do better. You deserve it. Our kid deserves it. What kind of father would I be if I can’t respect you?” his lips brushed against her cheek gently, “From now on, I’ll give you your space. Anytime you want me to back off, just say the word and I’ll do it. You know I will. I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

“I know,” she whispered. He set his free hand carefully on her waist, and she allowed herself to wrap her arms around his neck.

“All I ask is that you don’t shut me out anymore,” he made the request as he pressed his forehead to hers, “You don’t have to do this alone. We’re partners. That hasn’t changed.”

“Okay,” she answered him, “I’ll try.”

They sealed the agreement with a kiss, soft and sweet at first, but melting into something far more needful. There was a release of the tension that they had both carried in it, one they both needed after the long weeks leading up to this. It was seen by no one but the forest, and for a moment, they could forget that their whole world was threatening to collapse under them. Elain was grateful for that moment. It gave her perspective. On what mattered to her. To him. To them. 

“We need to tell them,” he repeated her thoughts from earlier, but his voice was hoarse and his hand found its way up her shirt to cup her breast. She drew him in for another kiss as she wrapped her leg around his waist and pulled him against her. 

“Tomorrow. We’ll tell them tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sellarin belongs to fauxfelix on Tumblr, and The characters of Clan Tanaleth belong to @ladyartanis!


	19. Difficult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revas and Elain reveal their secret to his mother.

Four days after they had plotted to neutralize Paeris with rumors and exaggerated tales, the bulk of the Diceni hunters returned to the steppes. Sellarin and Darvel didn’t say goodbye, and didn’t even acknowledge they knew them. Revas and Elain neither one expected them to; they had to be above suspicion, and any further interactions would endanger their plans. It was important that something went smoothly now, or else they would lose everything.

Warlord Threlen did not leave with the bulk of his hunters. He watched grimly as his son, the Hand of Vengeance, performed the rights of safe passage, as Elain blessed their arrows, and as Keeper Deshanna exchanged words of friendship and warm hearths if they should ever return. It was light on the ritual and pomp, so it made Revas nervous to see a Warlord carry himself with such an intensity during the simple ceremony. For all his faults, Den had always been approachable, easy to talk to. There was no doubt among Lavellan’s hunters that he was one of them; as it should be with any good Warlord. But Threlen seemed as out of reach as the sun itself.

Four days after the Diceni hunters left with all the bluster they arrived in, the clan moved back down into the valley and away from the mountain paths. Fresh water was hard to come by there, and they were carrying the extra burden of Threlen’s remaining forces. It was a matter of keeping illness and plague at bay during the long winter. 

The yurts were erected next to the river, and Revas felt a subtle anxiety well up in him when he saw the trees that had been burnt from the magical bombardment in the battle that had happened only a couple of weeks prior. The hunters had taken to calling it “The Minanter Stand”. Revas didn’t like giving it a name. The nightmares of the blood-soaked ground he was prepared to die on invaded his sleep, and the proximity of the battle grounds made him clench his teeth in his waking hours. Giving it a name just made it real.

Four days after they had finally settled in the new camp, he and Elain worked up the courage to reveal the secret they had been holding onto for almost three weeks. First, they argued over who they should tell first. She revealed to him that Old Bida already knew, and he was furious. He told her he should’ve known before anyone else and she had no right, and she was furious. They had wanted to try harder for each other, but it was difficult. _All things worthwhile in life are difficult_ , his father had once told him. Revas wished he had listened to his father more.

Their rage eventually subsided, and they tried again. This time, they decided Sohta needed to know before anyone else. She would be heartbroken if they sprung it on her during Council. It was a stepping point and a place of agreement, but it still scared them both. These petty arguments were only preludes to the battles that would come in the encroaching months. 

“She’s going to hate me,” Elain admitted her fear to him as they discussed their next move in her yurt. She fiddled with a stray thread unraveling in her wool tunic as she paced the hard-packed floor, “She’ll think I’m going to throw you to the wolves to save myself. You’re all she has left and she’s so over-protective of you…”

“I can protect myself. She knows that,” he replied tiredly. It was getting late, and he wanted to get this over with so he could get some sleep. But Elain was waffling. 

“Maybe if we wait a little longer, I can come up with a better solution,” she ignored him, “There has to be some way to approach this so there’s as little blowback as possible…”

He sighed heavily, “Elain.”

“Sohta should know first, of course, but perhaps we should think about what to tell her in regards to the affair. Will time factor in a negative or a positive way? Twelve years of hiding it might shock her, but it also lends credence to the rumors we’ll be spinning…”

“Elain,” he said again, this time louder. She stopped her pacing and finally looked at him, her train of thought broken. 

“We need to do this as soon as possible and as truthfully as possible. The more complicated it gets, the harder it will be to win people back to your side,” he explained to her, “Besides, waiting isn’t going to work. Your pants aren’t fitting anymore.”

Elain looked down on her stomach as if she were seeing it for the first time, and her hands ran over the fabric that lifted ever so slightly where her abdomen had started to swell. They had already waited too long as it is. She was nearly halfway through her pregnancy, and a wandering eye would be able to discern it easily enough. It would be better if they controlled how the clan found out. 

“You’re right,” she relented after a moment, “Let’s just..let’s just get it over with.”

Revas rose from the comfort and warmth of her cot with a stretch and a yawn, and he watched Elain as she threw her heavy cloak over her shoulders. Her hands fumbled as she attempted to tie it shut, their tremors making it difficult to weave the leather ties properly. He gently pushed her hands down and did the ties for her, patting them as he finished. He could feel her heart beating wildly under the palm of his hand, even through all the layers. She was on the verge of panicking. 

“The Forge Light Festival is next month. My father won’t be able to enjoy it if he finds out before then,” she said quietly. She was only making excuses to delay the inevitable now.

“He’ll get over it,” he told her, “Come on. Before you lose your nerve.”

She nodded and clutched her cloak tightly as he led her out of the quiet yurt. The campgrounds outside were also quiet, many people already retired for the night. But the moon shone brightly in the sky and the snows had relented, leaving it almost picturesque. Revas attempted to memorize it, to call upon it later when times were harder. Some part of him had dreamed of this; finally telling his mother about Elain, letting all the truth come out. Even though the situation was ideal, he wanted to make the best of it it.

They walked in silence, side by side, her shoulder brushing against him, and as they saw the low glow of a dying hearth from inside Sohta’s yurt, she paused. 

“Maybe she’s asleep,” she worried.

“Then we’ll wake her up,” he responded, “Enough excuses.”

She still hesitated, her body tense and her face tenser. He wasn’t used to her being so indecisive or so scared. It had nothing to do with Sohta either, and everything to do with the control she held slipping through her grasp. It frustrated him with how irrational she was being, but he stilled his mind and reminded himself that he was trying harder for her. He grabbed hold of her hand, and pulled her inside with him as he entered his mother’s yurt.

That was a mistake.

“Ay, don’t you knock!?” Sohta threw...something --a pillow maybe?-- at them, and he felt Elain rushing to pull him back outside. 

But it was like he’d been turned to stone. Like he’d looked in the Dread Wolf’s eyes and got his soul stolen. Like he was wounded on the ground, alone, and in the direct path of a wild boar. And the boar had the head of _fucking Warlord Den_.

“You son of a bitch!” he yelled at the half naked Warlord sprawled out on his mother’s cot. Despite Den’s injuries, he still managed to let out a round of his loud, mocking laughter. It only made him angrier.

“Stop!” Elain yanked him back by his collar as he went to lunge at Den, and that made him laugh louder. Elain continued to pull on him while Sohta pushed him from the front, both trying to get him to leave. It was the last thing he wanted to do in the moment, but he relented. 

The cold air outside hit him like a fist, and he could hear his mother tying the entrance to her yurt shut behind him as she grumbled about being interrupted. Den was still laughing. His body shook with anger, and if he wasn’t so worried about upsetting his mother and Elain, he’d go back in there and beat the teeth out of the Warlord’s disgusting mouth. He paced in front of the entranceway, grinding his feet into the frozen ground. 

“That was...not what I expected,” Elain said reluctantly, “Creators preserve me, not what I expected at all.”

“You think?!” he snapped at her. She gave what he thought was a huff.

“Don’t take it out on me,” she chastised him, “I wasn’t the one riding Den like a halla.”

He stopped his pacing and glared at her, “Are you serious right now? That’s my mom!”

Her face lit up in a smile, and her cheeks reddened from trying to hold in her laughter, “I am just as shocked as you.”

“This isn’t a joke,” he said angrily, “You know how he is!”

“And so does Sohta,” she reached out and grabbed his arm gently,”It’s been eleven years, Revas. Let her enjoy herself.”

“Not with Den.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” she replied sharply, her mirth now gone. 

They waited in silence for a few moments so his mother could compose herself, and Revas tried his damndest to get the image he saw out of his head. He had come here for a reason, so he attempted to focus on that. Closing his eyes, he imagined the future. There was a yurt --probably Elain’s larger one-- and she stood in the center, rocking a bundled child in her arms, humming softly. He would approach her, and look down on the bundle, pull back the soft blankets of swaddling and...

...Den’s face appeared, laughing at him from inside the swaddling, invading even his idealistic little centering point. He cursed under his breath and wished with his entire being that the Dread Wolf would appear, bringing the end of the world with Him, and swallow him up whole.

“You can come back in,” his mother finally called to them from inside while she loosened the ties holding the wicker hanging shut. 

This time, it was his turn to falter, but Elain would not let him, and she pulled him inside like he had done to her only minutes ago. Minutes that felt like years. Sohta had stoked the smart hearth at the center of her yurt and lit the small lanterns she had. It was bright and welcoming, but Den was still there, sitting up on the cot now, the still-healing burn from the lightning splayed across his bare shoulders and chest. Revas felt his rage building up again. _He couldn’t even manage to put a fucking shirt on,_ his mind shouted at him. 

“Not that I don’t enjoy your visits, dears, but next time I would appreciate you letting me know you’re going to be barging into _my private living space_ ,” Sohta lectured them. She sat down on the cot next to Den, further enraging him. 

_Hold it together,_ he told himself, _you gotta get through this. You can hurt Den later. After this is all over._

“I’m sorry. It was something very important we needed to talk to you about, and it couldn’t wait,” Elain spoke on their behalf, ever the diplomat, “If I would have know you had….company...we would’ve stopped by tomorrow.”

“Well you’re here now, might as well hear it!” she replied with exasperation. It wasn’t difficult to see Sohta was irritated at the disruption. It made Revas feel sick. He shifted his weight between his legs as the anxious energy of his anger coursed through him. 

“Den should leave,” he said the words between clenched teeth. He kept his gaze on the Warlord, who was still wearing a wide smile on his face, though it only stretch fully on one side. 

Sohta looked over towards the Den, then back at them, “That important, eh? This about that kiss you two got the clan wagging their tongues at?”

He and Elain exchanged glances at each other, then slowly back to her, but neither one dared to answer. She merely nodded her head at the understanding of the it.

“That’s what I thought,” she said smugly, “You think you could hide things from me? I could spot trouble in your eyes before you two could even talk.” She leaned back on her cot, placing a feather-stuffed pillow behind her to support her back, “Den can stay. I’m sure this won’t be anything he doesn’t know already anyways.”

He gritted his teeth at Den nodding his head in agreement, but willed himself to slow his breathing. They had come for a reason; he couldn’t let his blind rage disrupt it now. _Do it for Elain,_ he reminded himself, _she needs you now._ Lowering his eyes to the floor, he wrapped his arm around Elain’s shoulder and pulled her in close to him. It was not enough, but even the smallest show of support was important.

Elain cleared her throat softly, and pulled her cloak into her body tightly, preparing herself. With a deep breath, she took the final plunge.

“That is what we came to talk to you about. The kiss...and more,” she started, pausing for a second to take in another deep breath, “Kellen was right; I’ve broken my oaths. We’ve been having an affair.”

Sohta sprang up off the cot and was in their face immediately, “You went through with it? Are you crazy?! I always knew Revas was infatuated, but you know better Elain!” Den merely let out a snort and shook his head. 

“I know, Mamae,” she said quietly, “But I…”

Sohta pressed a finger to her lips and quieted her, “Don’t you worry, we will fix this. The Council and gods help us, your _father_ won’t have to find out. You’ll just have to stop seeing each other and--”

“That’s not going to happen,” he cut in, pulling Elain in closer to him, as if he could protect her from what this knowledge would do, “She’s pregnant.”

Just like with the Diceni spies, silence washed over the yurt. Sohta’s breathing became irregular, and Den sat preternaturally still, both in shock. His mother would be attempting to try to keep her temper cool, and the Warlord was practicing breathing to keep calm. They were fighting to maintain control. Something told him that no matter what anyone in the clan might have assumed about them, this would be the standard, not the anomaly. And it didn’t bode well for when it was revealed to everyone. 

“Is this true?” his mother finally asked Elain. She merely nodded her affirmation, her chin quivering slightly. The whole ordeal was embarrassing to her; a black mark on her reputation and a nuisance. Her fears lay in her failure, and nothing else. 

“Oh my precious girl,” Sohta clucked over her, taking her face between her hands, “My little girl. You’re going to be a mother.”

“Yes,” Elain affirmed once more, her voice suddenly cold. She didn’t even try to hide her resentment. 

“I can’t believe it,” Den said from the cot, his speech more slurred than usual, “Can’t believe it.”

“How...how far along?” Sohta asked her.

“Just over four months now. The baby will be here this spring,” she replied tonelessly. Sohta gasped at the answer.

“So soon,” tears welled up in her eyes and she let her hands drop from Elain’s face as she turned towards him, “And you…”

The smack hit his chest hard and he let out a yelp before backing away from her, “Ma!”

“Do you realize what you’ve done!” Sohta yelled at him as she chased him, her fist raised again for another hit, “The Council will have you exiled when they find out! And that’s only if Vhannas doesn’t get to you first! You are working so hard to end up like your father: _rotting in the ground and feeding the earth!_ ”

“Sohta, that’s enough,” Den murmured, “You don’t have to bring Heliwr into this to make the kid feel bad.”

She lowered her hand and turned in a fury towards the Warlord, “Don’t you start. You told me months ago you suspected something! You should’ve talked to them, got them to end this. Now we’ll have to move Revas to keep him safe and I’m going to lose my son!”

“Ma, you’re not going to lose me. And I’m not going anywhere,” Revas saw his mother trembling with rage, but he needed to stick up for himself, “I can’t leave Elain alone in this. I won’t.”

“Elain will be fine! Vhannas will protect her. She might even keep the Mantle! Gods know what they’ll say about you in order to save her title,” his mother said darkly, “I can hear the accusations already: _The Beast forced himself on my daughter. She was desecrated, the Goddess was blasphemed against!_ Her integrity will be saved, and you’ll be strung up by the side of the road, a quiverful of arrows shot into you!”

“Stop,” Elain finally spoke up. Her voice found its command again, “That won’t happen. I will not allow it. Revas has served me faithfully for the entire duration of my time as Maiden, and has been devoted to me for even longer than that. I will not let his reputation be ruined for my mistake, my indiscretion.”

“And how will you stop your father from doing it?” Sohta choked out, her composure completely gone, “How will you stop the Keeper from banishing him? Kellen will say he betrayed the Mother of Hares and no one will be able to argue it this time!”

“There are plans already in motion. You’ll just have to trust me,” she tried to assure her, “Trust me that I don’t want to lose him anymore than you do.”

Sohta went to open her mouth, but thought better for it, and instead, sat back down on her cot, her shoulders shaking, and her tears coming freely. This was not how Revas had dreamed of it in his quiet nights. He had thought of happy tears and hugs and acceptance; of him sharing the love he’d harbored for so long, and for his family to feel it as keenly as he did. Instead, it was full of resentment and fear. 

It was then he knew that he’d been the Shadow too long. Everything it represented -- the stalking resentment and fear that Death carried-- was everything he was now. Things that should’ve brought him and Elain and his mother and the entire clan joy was nothing more than a monster walking in darkness, ready to leap at them and tear out their throat. It had been far, far too long.

“I’m sorry Ma,” he told her quietly, “I know this isn’t what you and dad wanted me to be.”

“No, it’s not,” she said through her tears, and Den rubbed her back gently, “But hindsight is a trap Dirthamen sets to lure the weak into despair. There’s nothing that can be done now.”

“It’s not over yet, Sohta,” Den attempted to comfort her, though he stumbled over the words, “We’re both on the Council. We can have our say,” he turned his head towards Elain, “Does Old Bida know?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s three people who will stand against the dissenting voices. We won’t let them take Revas without a fight,” he said with conviction, despite his struggle to mouth the words. The rage that burned in him made way for embarrassment at Den’s willingness to fight for them. It could mean the permanent end of his career, and he was willing to do it without a second thought.

“Thank you, Den,” Elain thanked him graciously, “Your support in the coming storm means more than I can describe. But we need a stronger plan. We’ve already set up a network in the steppes, but we’ll need voices here to whisper in the clan’s ear after we let the Council know. Especially the hunters.”

“Leave that to me,” Den said slowly, deliberately, struggling now to keep the words clear, “I know who will be loyal and who to avoid. Might be good to get Revas working on the ground more too...as ‘punishment’. Rotating weeks on guard duty will do a lot to humble him in front of the hunters.”

“Then we’ll do that,” she agreed, “I’m too far along to be able to participate in hunts much longer. I’ll work on turning hearthworkers and artisans here instead, since I’m sure Kellen and my father will fill their ears with poison.”

“Of course he will,” Sohta said, the years of fighting with the Craftmaster making her bitter, “The herders will listen to me for the most part, but this will work better if we’re all on the same page. What are you having your network in the steppes say?”

The moment of melodrama was over, and it was back to business. There was a bit of relief in that; Revas didn’t like all the crying and accusations, but he would need the practice. Council was going to be a mess. 

“We’re having them spread rumors on the steppes and across Thedas to other clans,” he explained to his mother, “Making us out to be a tragic love story. Getting the People invested in seeing us win. Even though Council here is going to be rough, it’ll be nothing compared to what will happen when Paeris arrives. We have to undermine him as soon as possible.”

“I had almost forgotten about him,” his mother mused, “I suppose that means we have to get the Hand and Threlen on our side too. And that won’t be easy; Threlan and Vhannas are old friends.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Elain said shortly, “What’s important now is telling everyone as soon as possible so we can recover before…,” she paused and looked down at her stomach, “...before the child arrives.”

The mention of the baby made the room go quiet again. It seemed like an intangible thing. Almost like it was not real, just an idea. He knew that’s what it was to Elain, for sure. The idea of her loss of power, her loss of title. A constant reminder of her mistakes. He wished she saw it like he did; a reminder of the love they were unwilling to give up, not a mistake.

“I still can’t believe,” Sohta finally broke the silence, her voice filled with a sad awe, “I had all but given up the idea of being a grandmother. Mythal have mercy, I never expected it like this. The world gives us happiness with one hand and snatches it away with the other.”

Elain’s title and then their baby taking her hard work away. Sohta’s husband and then death taking him away. Den’s love of fighting and then injury taking that away. Revas’ want for normalcy, to not be just the thug to Elain’s Maiden...and their oaths stealing that away like a thief in the night. They had all suffered loss. They had all seen the heights of what their lives could be torn from their grasp. Not one of them hadn’t experienced the weight behind her words. 

“That is does, love,” Den said sadly, “That it does.”

\---

When Sar’een returned from the Exalted Plains, she had barely even made it inside the main hall of Skyhold before she was caught up in work again. There were documents to be signed, treaties to be approved, contracts to be reviewed. Though she was no stranger to working hard and having very little free time, the idea of another afternoon filled with mindless paperwork made her want to crawl under the biggest rock on the mountain and hide. She suspected the paperwork would still manage to find her though.

“And of course, there was the banquet with The Comtesse Lysella that you missed while you were in the Dales. I had one of our diplomats attend, and she should have a report on the state of the Comtesse’s holdings when she returns. We should, of course, send the standard gifts and placations afterwards,” Josephine reported to her as she attempted to sign off on scout debriefings on the war room table.

“What kind of gifts this time?” Sar’een asked her without looking up, “Isn’t the Comtesse Lysella the one who interested in Dwarven history? Maybe we could send her a bound copy of the studies our agents are doing in the ruins in the Hissing Wastes?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Josephine scribbled the note hastily on her writing board, “The Comtesse is a great collector of books as well, so this would be especially fitting. I am always so impressed with your thoughtfulness when dealing with the matters of nobility, Inquisitor.”

Sar’een finally finished the stack of reports, rushing her signature on the last page, “Thanks. I just try to pay attention to what people are saying. I don’t know if it’s thoughtfulness.”

“You would be surprised at how few people are willing to listen,” her ambassador explained gently, “And it is not easy, even for those who are. Sometimes empathy works against us when we least expect it.”

“Pfft,” she snorted, “You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve learned that being nice doesn’t get you out ahead. It’s just habit now.”

Josephine cocked her head in concern, “Being kind isn’t a fault, Inquisitor Lavellan. It’s a difficult road trying to please everyone; harder than being ruthless is. And it’s one full of failure. Not everyone appreciates what you are doing, and some actively work against you because it isn’t the kind of help they want. But my deep respect for you comes from the fact that you continue to walk that road everyday, and without complaint. Everyone can see you care. Never doubt that.”

She set her quill down gently on the table, taken aback by her ambassador’s words. The Exalted Plains had been difficult; she missed her family, missed her life. And the Dalish there did not welcome her efforts with open arms like she had expected. The Dales were full of loss and pain, and it struck her how much it made her doubt her methods, her goals….herself. 

Sar’een’s brow creased with her sudden rush of emotion, “Thank you, Josephine. I needed to hear that.”

“We all need to hear congratulations for our efforts sometimes,” her friend said sweetly, “The blind praise for things you have no control over isn’t the same.”

“No, it’s not,” she said quietly as she stared at the green mark that seemed to always hum on her hand. Uplifted into a position she didn’t ask for, and exalted for it. It never felt right. Every bad decision she made could all be erased as long as she still held this mysterious power in her grasp. She didn’t like having that kind of temptation at her fingertips.

They were interrupted when the heavy doors leading into the war room flung open, and Leliana walked briskly through, her hand tightly gripping a missive. Her face was impassive, as usual, but this was obviously a pressing matter.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I received a report from Wycome,” she explained in her lilting, accented voice, “I thought you might want to see it right away.”

She handed off the missive into Sar’een’s hand, and she unrolled it swiftly. 

_Nightingale,_

_I have new information regarding Duke Antoine of Wycome's move against the Inquisitor's Dalish clan. It appears that Wycome has been experiencing some sort of plague that affects only humans. The duke has kept news of the disease quiet; as his fellow nobles grow louder in their anger, blaming the elves in the alienage for what has been called the "Knife-Eared Plague," Antoine evidently chose to use Clan Lavellan as a scapegoat. His surreptitious move against the Dalish was an attempt to convince his nobles that he was taking action._

_Suspicions in the city remain high. I can gather information, but any action on my part will be high risk._

_Jester_

“Gods,” she mumbled under her breath, “This is a disaster. The elves in the city will be targets next.”

“I’m glad you can see the danger,” her spymaster commented, “So now is the time for swift action. I can have my agents take care of the Duke permanently, moving against him before the elves in the alienage suffer.”

“Your swift action could potentially cause the nobles to retaliate as well. They already believe the Dalish are behind it, what would stop them from going after the Inquisitor’s clan?” Josephine asked.

“What do you suggest?” she questioned her ambassador as she stared at the writing on the missive. _Not again, please not again._ The anxiety churned in her stomach.

“I suggest we send a noble acquaintance of mine to investigate the Duke. Lady Volant can get to the bottom of the situation, and if we are better informed, we can approach the situation better,” she suggested. 

“And you think assassination will work best?” she directed the question towards Leliana.

“It is the fastest measure, but there is no way of telling if it would be the best. Josie’s suggestion is a good one, if you are nervous of backlash falling on your family,” her spymaster said tactfully. 

“Then we’ll send the Lady Volant. I can’t risk rushing in without knowing exactly what’s going on. It’s too dangerous,” she explained, and both Leliana and Josephine nodded.

“We’ll make the arrangements now,” Josie assured her as she and Leliana walked together from the room, “Lady Volant can be in Wycome by the end of the month.”

“Good,” Sar’een said, though the words were lost on their footfalls echoing on the stone floors of the hall leading out of the war room. 

She was left alone, once again, with her thoughts, and she dug her nails into the mahogany table in frustration. For everything she seemed to resolve, new problems only arose right after. There was no time to catch her breath, no time to reflect. The immediacy invaded every waking moment of her life now, and she lamented the quiet life she had before. At the time she had thought it boring, stagnant. She had only wanted to see what the world had to offer, but it only seemed to offer destruction of everything she knew. 

Including herself.


	20. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council learns of Elain and Revas' secret.

The eyes of the Council seem to follow Elain from every corner of the Keeper’s yurt. They hid their mouths behind their hands as they whispered, but their eyes never left her. She was a spectacle already, a show for them to watch to amuse themselves, but never intervene. They would gleefully take part in seeing her crash and burn, and not lift one finger to help her back up again. Vultures waiting for the feast, and she was already on her way to dying. It did not make her feel safer in revealing what she had been withholding from them for so long.

She and Revas had told Deshanna that morning. Elain had been tempted to beg Revas to run away with her so she wouldn’t have to endure the scrutiny of her family and clan. But he had calmed her again, made her focus on their objective, and centered her mind. They walked into her pavilion hand in hand, and took the plunge into their unknown future together. Telling the Keeper was the point of no return, and she had been thankful she was not in this alone.

Deshanna took the news well, all things considered. There was no crying or yelling or emotional turmoil. Rather, the timid, milquetoast leader continued to live up to her reputation and gave them a curt congratulations, and a suggestion to meet with a closed Council in her pavilion to control the situation better. It was entirely reasonable suggestion, but her response --bereft of any strong conviction on the matter-- left Elain feeling uneasy. It had been too simple, and she didn’t want to let her guard down.

Revas fidgeted next to her on the floor, just as unsettled as her, and just as eager to get it over with. He hadn’t spoken of his fears since they fought about it, but she knew he was scared of what would happen to him. Sohta had been entirely right in her concerns; Vhannas would never let anything happen to Elain, but Revas would suffer dearly for it. She reached for his hand and squeezed it gently, and he squeezed back in appreciation. It wouldn’t matter much longer if anyone saw the gesture. She might as well give him comfort while she could.

When Deshanna finally entered her yurt, the idle chatter died down quickly. Eager eyes watched her as she sat on her elaborately carved chair, as she smoothed out her robes, as she cleared her throat. Elain and Revas and everyone else waited with bated breath for her to speak, but even the Keeper seemed to have a difficult time giving life to the words. 

“I know you are all curious as to why I called you here tonight,” she finally started, “I myself am beginning to question why. In all my years of serving Lavellan and doing my best to be mindful to the concerns of all us, I find myself wondering if I did enough? Did I not see things that should’ve been clear? Have my decisions been weighed as impartially as I originally thought? When revelations such as the ones I have to tell you all are shared, one cannot help but wonder if we ever can make the right decisions. How can we when none of us knows the entire truth? It’s a concept just out of our reach, clouded by the lives we endure.”

“And I admit, my friends and family,” the Keeper continued, her deep voice becoming more clear, more confident, “That I have been duped by the absolutes. I believed in the absolute leadership of the High Keepers. I believed in the absolute power of the clans lying within their respective Councils. I believed in the absolute piousness in which the scions serve us, as embodiments of the traits of our missing gods. As of late, I have learned the difficult lesson that nothing is absolute.”

Her gaze fell on Elain momentarily before she began again, “People are not absolute. There are failings in all of us. No one person has lived free of the faults and troubles that are systematic to us being what we are. Blame can be thrown, excuses can be given, and deep regrets can be felt, but it is all part of the the experience of living. And as we Dalish love life and hate death, it should be no surprise that even the best among us are deeply flawed.”

“And yet...wherever there is pain and turmoil, there is also joy and celebration with the People. The greatest of lows can bring about the most beautiful moments once they have passed. I want you to keep that in mind as we approach this issue tonight.”

There was a general murmuring among the gathered crowd, some growing impatient with Deshanna’s speech. The Keeper was unfazed.

“After the issue has been revealed, the floor will be open for discussion afterwards. I am requesting politely that you keep your emotions under control. I do not want to scold you like children,” Deshanna warned and a hush fell over the room again. She looked towards her and gave her a nod of encouragement, “Whenever you’re ready, Elain.”

Elain was almost sure that everyone could hear her heart pounding in her chest. She certainly could. The beating was rapid and painful, making her feel sick, claustrophobic, helpless.The room was closing in on her, and the bright, judgmental eyes could see into her very soul. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life. 

Mustering every bit of courage she could, she stood up in front of the room, her knees shaking but thankfully hidden by her heavy cloak, and she lifted her chin high, remembering that she still wore the authority of the Mantle on her shoulders. _This is mine_ , she reminded herself, _they can only take it from me if I allow it._

She cleared her throat loudly, a last resort to stall the inevitable, but it was time. This had gone on too long. Enough hiding, enough lying. It was time to finally reap what she had sowed.

“Many of you have heard rumors about myself and my Shadow; rumors that range from suggestive to downright obscene. Whispers around the hearthfires at night, casual gossiping while you work in front of the loom or the forge, jokes between hunters as they drag their prey back to the camp. I am not unaware of them,” Elain’s whole body trembled under her cloak, her fear of these familiar faces turning her body into a prison. But she pressed on, “These rumors did not start on that morning of the Stand at Minanter. Everyone saw something personal shared between us then, but that only fueled the flames that had been burning low for a very long time. There has not been a day since I put on the Mantle that fingers weren’t pointed at me, where my every move wasn’t scrutinized. I understand why this is; I am the Maiden. I am supposed to be beyond reproach.”

She looked down briefly at Revas sitting on the floor next to her, then took in a deep breath, “But I am not. I have stumbled, made mistakes, had bad calls during my time as Maiden. Not even scions to the gods can hope to be as wise and just in their judgments as Mythal.”

The whispers in the room began to rise, a thrumming, yet quiet background to the loud thumping in her chest. Fragments of their words floated over her, but she paid them no mind. If she did not reveal it now, she may never do so.

“I made a foolish decision, one that jeopardizes my oaths and my position, but it is not one I can bring myself to regret. It was something that filled my heart and clouded my ability to see what The Lady of the Hunt wanted from me. Her Will is always mysterious, always obscured, and when She has stood silent, as all our Creators do, I sought peace somewhere else,” she explained as she felt every eye fall upon her, “I broke my promise to not bring anyone to my bed, and in an act of abandon, I allowed my Banal’ras in.”

The whispers rose to a crescendo, some shocked, many exaggerated, and even murmurs of a mutinous nature. Elain paid them no mind. This may be the only chance she would get to have the upperhand for some time, and the only chance she might have to corroborate the whisper campaign very publically. She had to strike the iron while it was hot.

“This was not done out of desperation or a lack of control or even a moment of reckless passion,” she continued on, “It was a union out of the love we both bear for each other. Our duties and service to the Goddess enriched us, but it could not hope to eclipse what we shared between our hearts. We have carried on this affair for the entire duration of my time as acting Maiden.”

The gasps in Deshanna’s pavilion were loud, the ravenous lungs of the Council sucking in all the air, leaving her suffocating. Their eyes were wide as lakes, and as dark; filled to the brim with unfathomable thoughts and hidden secrets, threatening to spill out should they open their mouths and let it escape. The seconds ticked past in heartbeats --she counted four-- and she was desperate for release; to be rid of the burden and to carry herself with pride once more. 

“And as is the nature of the world, love can grow bigger, into something more than the partners may have intended…” she began.

“You’re with child.”

It was her father’s blunt voice who made the statement. And it was a statement. There was no doubt in her mind. Vhannas was perceptive above all things, and no poetic speeches and impassioned pleas would impress him. He was taking the option of them away from her.

“Yes,” she confirmed softly, “I am. There will be a baby in the spring.”

He stood up slowly from the floor, all while staring at her with a cold fury that was uncharacteristic of him. Vhannas was a man of complete control, but his face spoke of a thin thread, ready to snap. Without another word, he weaved his way through the crowded yurt, pushed open the hanging, and disappeared into the frigid night without another word. 

Though the departure was as silent as Death, the action spoke louder than anyone else on this Council would with their words. He turned away from her, from what she had done, and felt no need to either congratulate or condemn her. Others would theorize that it was a sign of his pain, of his disappointment. She knew it was a matter of washing his hands clean of a liability. 

She wanted to chase him outside, to run into his arms, to beg for his forgiveness and to be told that everything would be okay. Elain wanted her father, not the Craftmaster, to make the hurts and the fears go away, and instead, he offered silence. Judgment. Condemnation. Tears formed freely in her eyes, and she felt she no longer had the strength to fight for this. 

“There is nothing more to say. I yield the floor,” she said in defeat, then took her place again next to Revas. He ran a reassuring hand up and down her back, and it reminded her of when her father soothed her every pain in his unconventional way when she was a child. It was never a rub on her back or sweet words, but it still eased her worries all the same. The tears spilled hot down her cheeks. 

“I think I speak for everyone on this Council when I say that I am not surprised to hear of the deviant disregard Elain holds for her duties,” Loremaster Kellen found his courage to speak and took the floor, “Nor am I surprised of the outright blasphemy our Banal’ras is willing to commit for his own ego. Their flagrant dereliction of their sacred oaths and neglect for the spiritual well-being of this clan is nothing short of treason!”

“I would hardly call two young elves, who have spent their entire lives together, falling in love _‘treason_ ’,” Sohta argued hotly with him from her position next to Den, “What have they done to endanger the clan? The Dalish in general? Youthful hearts are impulsive, but not dangerous.”

“They aren’t some teenagers who got caught behind an aravel, Sohta. Elain and Revas have been fully blooded for over a decade, and both know the reverence we hold for our customs and our traditions. They just chose to ignore them,” Hearth Matron Aricia defended her husband’s claims. 

“If ignoring the Will of Andruil for your own _basic_ needs isn’t treason, then we truly have fallen from Her Grace,” Kellen sneered.

“Andruil is locked away, unable to reach Her People because of the Dread Wolf’s treachery. The scions do what they can to uphold the old traditions of the Creators, but like so many things, their true Will is lost,” one of the senior herders broke in, “What arrogance for someone to have to assume to know who has fallen from the favor of the Gods.”

“Quit arguing semantics! This is far bigger than that!” Kellen yelled, and several other voices rose in contest as well. Elain began to tune the petty bickering out. The room seem darker, the voices farther and farther away, and the tears that still flowed freely from her eyes engulfed her. Even Revas’ comforting touch was lost along with everything else as she retreated into her thoughts. 

She had done this to herself, had sowed this all. The world seemed to sit in the palm of her hands for so long, that seeing it crumble to dust between her fingers was bitter. Her pride and arrogance built her up, convinced her that she was untouchable. The phantom of Paeris’ reach would touch her with its cold fingertips, inviting doubt into her mind, but it was never doubt in herself, in her choices. That had always been someone else’s fault, someone else’s failings. 

But there was no doubt now that it had always been her. She puppeteered every move the hunters made for the last eight years, and every calculation, every plan, had been orchestrated in her own mind. She had left the failing clans with no choice but to swear fealty to her. She had plotted against Den when he wouldn’t submit to her. She had pushed Revas further and further to test his limits, only stopping when her tool threatened to break. All these people now arguing over the right and wrong of her actions had been nothing to her but toys.

And Sar’een. Even Sar’een had been a doll for her to pose and push towards getting what she wanted. A sweet, selfish woman now sat under the penetrating eye of the Chantry, distanced and isolated from her family and her people, all because of Elain. She had cut a path to her goals by shedding the blood of those she cared about, building a road with their broken hopes and cries, so that her feet never had to touch the treacherous ground. 

“Just face it; you’ve never been able to keep your little beast in control. You and everyone else has turned a blind eye while he runs around like an animal. It’s no wonder he couldn’t keep his hands to himself!” 

Her shallow pool of self-pity was broken by the scream that followed the acerbic words, and looked up to see Sohta pushing the Hearth Matron roughly to the ground, pressing her thumbs fiercely into the sockets under her eyes as she pinned her down with her knees. Revas was out of his seat immediately, along with Warlord Threlen and Aneth’ail, all three having to fight to pull his mother off Aricia. 

“That’s enough,” Threlen struggled to separate the two as Sohta fought even harder at the attempt at restraining her. Deshanna’s voice rose up as well as she tried to bring order back, but the crowd was too riled. There were shouts, and shoves as everyone took sides, and in an utterly embarrassing act, a cup flew over heads in the air. Utter chaos.

“I said _**ENOUGH**_!” Threlen bellowed, and the walls of the Keeper’s pavilion seemed to shake in response. The shouts died down, and several artisans and herders who had been on their feet found themselves seating themselves back onto the ground. They obeyed like children, and Elain was left finding a new respect for the Warlord.

“Useless, bile-bitten dogs! Fool-born and bred!” the Warlord shouted over the calming melee, “Is this how you run your clan? Through petty fights and pettier politicking? What have you gained by this? Accusations of treason and even darker things based on the scantest confession of wrong-doing. Have you no minds of your own?”

“Warlord, this is a difficult situation for us all,” Deshanna spoke up, attempting to decompress the tension that had built up so rapidly, “Any time a leader among the Dalish stumbles, chaos ensues. You cannot expect otherwise.”

“I expect Clan Lavellan, above all clans, to know the value of discipline and self-control. An arrow does hit the target if it is badly aimed,” Threlen countered. He turned abruptly and faced Elain, his good eye burning right through her, “This is not a matter your clan seems to be able to resolve on their own.”

“You have no right to decide that, Threlen,” Warlord Den warned him ominously, taking his time so the words were clear, “I’ve endured your prolonged stay, but I won’t have you make decisions over my charges.”

Threlen’s eye fell on Den, “You work with the Maiden, but she is not your charge. No more than The Hand of Vengeance is mine. But you are right. I cannot make that decision.”

“Then this grandstanding is pointless --” Deshanna began.

“I cannot make the decision, but neither can this Council,” Threlen interrupted her, “Scions are in a different jurisdiction, a different beast altogether. The High Keeper of the Free Marchers will need to decide how to approach this.”

“That’s a conflict of interest, don’t you think?” Kellen cut in desperately, “The High Keeper of the Free Marches territory is her brother. We can’t expect him to be impartial.”

“Keeper Paeris holds his family to the same high standards as anyone else,” Aneth’ail said calmly, a world away from his father’s brunt anger, “If anything he may feel the need to be much harsher with his decision since Elain is his sister.”

“Which is why we should make this choice ourselves, and make it soon,” Kellen argued hotly, “She’s already done enough damage. We cannot wait for a biased voice to decide what to do for us. Lavellan will stand free, with or without your permission.”

“You are so quick to patronize your betters, Kellen. It’s getting tiresome.”

Old Bida’s voice was muted and seemed disembodied from her great pile of furs and blankets next to Deshanna, but even after all these years of very little activity, she still commanded a room to her attention when she opened her mouth. She spoke and Lavellan listened.

“Or did you forget that The Hand of Vengeance is a scion as well? You do so often forget to show respect unless you want something from the exchange,” she scoffed, “Did you think standing for freedom would endear the Council to the cause? You’re merely a puppy, barking at the darkness, while those of us who have defended that freedom wait with weapons ready.”

“Hahren, that is unfair. I have stood up for--” the Loremaster attempted to recover, but Bida merely turned her head away from him. Elain’s heart eased at her old mentor’s display. It always left her in awe how beautifully Bida could gain control over a spiraling situation.

“You’ve stood up for _yourself_. This whole Council has. You fight like children and imagine whoever screams the loudest is in the right,” she lectured the entire yurt, “Oh, how Uthenera would be better than watching you all stumble over yourselves as you struggle to grasp simple logic.”

There was a stifled murmur of embarrassed voices at her speech, but Bida was not deterred. 

“What no one has pointed out is that in breaking her oaths, the Maiden has hurt no one but herself. Other disgraced scions did despicable things; steal, maim, _murder_. But Elain and her Shadow have not killed anyone,” she paused before she looked down on Elain and furrowed her brow, “They have only brought new life. And isn’t life what we Dalish hold sacred above all things? The freedom to live? The freedom to choose how we live? The liberation of never giving our culture, our lives to the shemlen?”

The murmured voices became more agreeable, whispered words of agreement passing between them. Elain’s heart lifted when she realized Bida was turning the crowd in her favor.

“It is time we stopped acting like children and started making hard decisions. What is more important? Tradition? Or our survival, our continued freedom? Will we throw away the entire tunic if one seam is ripped?” Bida pressed on, her raspy voice filling the yurt, “I say no. I say we work together and salvage the life that we so cherish and treasure. And I say we judge Elain based on her one indiscretion, not her entire career.”

A polite applause rose when she finished, but Bida’s stone-face remained just as cold. Elain recognized that her patience was thin, and her temper boiling just beneath the surface. The memory of the sting across her face from when she revealed her secret to Bida made her cheek tingle, and she knew that the Council would do well not to underestimate the old woman.

“What do you suggest, hahren?” Deshanna asked from next to her. 

“Let the High Keeper make a suggestion. There is no rush on this matter,” Bida said plainly, “Put Revas back under Den and let Elain continue her work until there is a decision otherwise.”

“Sound advice,” Deshanna agreed, “Advice that I will abide by. We will wait for Paeris to come and move forward then. In the meantime, Revas will follow Den’s orders and Elain will proceed as normal…”

More whispers, some discontented, some satisfied.

“...and let me be the first to offer my blessing on the new child of Lavellan. I look forward to welcoming a new generation to strengthen our ranks,” Deshanna said bitterly, obviously only going through the motions in order to maintain order. She was not looking forward to anything to do with this child. Elain did not blame her.

“This meeting is dismissed.”

\---

Elain ran the warm, moist cloth over her body in her yurt later that night, trying to wash away the sweat and fear that had seeped out of her skin, out of every pore. The steam from the water bowl rose and swirled around her, helping her muscles relax and soothing some of the aching she had felt persistently in her lower back. Some of it, but not all.

She tossed the cloth back into the bowl of water and reached for her robe, slipping it over her bare body. The process was methodical, relaxing, and meant to distract her from the evening. Everything had happened so quickly, she felt it was difficult to breathe now. Washing and dressing for the evening was just a way to gain some semblance of control, but the motions still felt empty. Nothing would be the same. Everything would change. It was too soon to see if it would be for the better.

Though it shouldn’t have, she was surprised when she heard the wicker hanging of her yurt being pushed open, then falling shut as someone entered. But she was not surprised at all when she turned and saw it was Revas.

“Hey,” she said softly as he moved inside, bags under his eyes and his hair falling out of the bun he usually wore it in.

“Hey yourself,” he replied just as softly.

“What are you doing here? It’s late,” she asked as she reached out towards him as he approached, settling her hand on his chest. His heart thumped under her palm and she wondered if it would still race for her when she was diminished.

“Wanted to see you. You did well tonight.”

“So did you. You were uncharacteristically quiet while Kellen ran his mouth,” she laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent and writing it into her memory. Dust and dirt and the tang of halla fat soap, distinctly him. 

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his body, then placed a kiss on the top of her head, “It wasn’t my place to talk tonight. We’re the ones who messed up, not them.”

“Yes,” was all she could say. 

They stood in silence, wrapped in each other’s warmth and comfort, but both lost in their own thoughts. She worried about the future, what it would mean for her, whether her plans would work, but she was sure his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Elain knew they would have to discuss it soon. She had avoided it and evaded it, hoping that if she didn’t confront it, it wouldn’t be real. It had been a poor decision.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, and brought her hand to the back of his neck, guiding his face downwards to hers, and kissed him tenderly. A show of appreciation and a show of love, soft but urgent in its need for the message to be heard. She had neglected him in her insecurities, unable to face the life he wanted when it didn’t leave room for her Mantle. It hadn’t been fair, and no kiss would undo the time already lost because her fear. He still returned it gladly. 

“Stay with me,” she whispered into his mouth, overcome with the idea of this all being real and no longer some forbidden dream. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They made love with abandon that night, no longer restrained by time, by fears, by doubts. Everything was out in the open and exposed, ready for them to embrace fully. They were finally free, and there was no more time for them to waste. Once they finished, they lay satiated, but also exhausted; the kind of exhaustion that sunk into their bones. The hearthfire was reduced to embers, and the moon shone brightly through the vent in the ceiling. It was peaceful, nearly fabricated in its quietness, but after what they suffered through recently, it was also a relief. 

Revas’ head was nestled in her neck, his breath puffing warmly against her while his fingertips explored her skin, focusing on making slow circles on her abdomen. It made the tiny hairs there stand on end, and she shivered at the movements. He stopped and set his palm flat over the swell of her stomach.

“You want to talk about it, don’t you?” she asked him gently. He adjusted himself, moving up higher on the cot, and pressing his nose against her cheek.

“I do,” he replied, “Everything has been so...fast. Sometimes I have to remind myself that there’s going to be a kid. Other times I can’t stop thinking about it though.”

“Why not?”

He sighed and kissed her cheek, “I don’t know. Because I’m scared? I never really saw myself as a dad before. I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.”

Elain lifted her head and turned on her side towards him so she could look at him in the face. She cupped her hands under his jaw, “I’ve never met a more devoted man than you. There are no doubts that you will be a good father. As strong and caring as Heliwr was.”

Revas nodded his head, and to her surprise, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He truly had been afraid. He probably still was. It was a natural fear to have, perfectly normal. The mundane nature of it was endearing after all the complicated politics. She placed kisses on his eyelids, blessing the pain away the best she could.

“Thanks,” he said before changing the subject, “What about your father? Are you going to talk to him?”

“I’ll try,” she said dejectedly, “Though I doubt he will want to speak to me. What I’ve done is unthinkable to him. Unforgivable.”

“He’ll come around,” he assured her, but she knew even he didn’t believe it. Vhannas was angry, and once his anger was stoked, there was no act short of divine intervention that would turn him. 

“You should start sleeping here at night,” she suggested to him suddenly, the thought springing into her mind, “Vhannas may want to take you out of the picture permanently. It’s safer with me.”

He gave a short laugh and brushed back the hair that had fallen over her brow, “Whatever you want Peach.”

They whispered to each other quietly for a little longer. Words of comfort, words of shame, just words so they could hear each other’s voices. Eventually words were not needed, and Elain fell into sleep listening to to Revas hum her favorite song, the lyrics barely escaping his mouth in his exhaustion. But they still came to her as the darkness of her dreams invaded her mind:

_Oh my love! Be alive and carefree with me!_

_Underneath the willow trees_

_And I’ll marry you there, for all to see_

_Underneath those old willow trees_


	21. Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revas is approached by his friends for a reckoning; Elain faces the only person she fears more than her brother.

“Chin down, fists up!”

Revas paced around the boundaries of the makeshift ring where a small group of apprentice hunters were practicing their hand-to-hand skills. He barked orders at the group during training with all morning, correcting their mistakes in form, instilling discipline in them, and making mental notes of the ones that will be useful additions to the Ethinan when they came of age. He really didn’t know why he bothered. These apprentices were no more than children. Den was trying his damndest to embarrass him, and as he wrestled to get the lanky little urchins in order while the veteran hunters watched on and laughed, he knew the Warlord’s plan was a success.

“I said _fists up_ , Belis!” 

The young girl raised her hands near her chin, earning groan from him. He stalked into the ring and grabbed her balled up fists, setting them higher up, level to her temples. Her chin quivered in nervousness as he did so, but he had to do it. Unless she was corrected, she’d pick up bad habits that would hurt her unit when she became fully blooded.

“Alright, knees apart, level with your shoulders,” he gently pushed one of the younger apprentice’s legs apart with his foot after giving them their orders, “Without proper form, you’re useless in a fight. You can’t depend on always keeping your prey at a distance. Sometimes, it’s going to be looking you in the face, and if your form is shit, you’re going to find yourself fighting for your life. Understood?”

“Yes, hahren,” the small troupe said in unison. 

“Good. Now practice your jabs.”

The group threw their little fists in the air, slow and uncoordinated, some of them giggling as they slipped from punching too hard. He walked up and down the line of them, stopping one at a time and correcting their stances, making them focus, trying to get it right. It seemed whenever he moved onto the next, more rowdy giggles would come loose. 

It was impossible to stop the restlessness, so he just let it go, keeping on an eye on the group to make sure they didn’t hurt themselves. They squealed and punched and kicked with their newly-learned skills, and he closed his eyes for a moment to get away from this fresh hell Den put him in.

“ _I told you I could do it!” Revas had yelled at his father, a wide smile on his face. His teeth were punctuated with blood from a wound he got fighting the other boy, but it had been worth it._

_“I said you shouldn’t do it, not that you couldn’t, Shem’assan. You need to learn to distinguish between the two,” his father told him patiently as he focused on fletching his arrows._

_He plopped down at his father’s feet, taking an arrow shaft from the quiver lying next to him, and grabbed three feathers out of the leather bag Heliwr kept them in. Carefully, he began to move the quill of the first feather into the groove cut into the shaft._

_“I know the difference,” he felt the need to explain himself to his father, “But Llyn said I’d never be as good as him. I had to teach him a lesson.”_

_“What makes you think you’re right?” his father asked him as he handed down the special glue he used for fletching,”You never know; you may not be as good as him.”_

_“Of course I will be! I’m already a better shot. Sorn even said so,” he argued._

_Heliwr gave a heavy sigh and laid his current work on his lap, “This competitiveness you have in you will get you in trouble, Revas. Not everything is a prize to win. Not everything is prey for you to hunt.”_

_“Trust me, Pa. This wasn’t even a competition,” Revas flashed another wide grin at his father. Heliwr was not amused._

_“You’re missing the point. You think you can go about life treating everything as if you are hunting. What have I told you about leaving that out there?” his father gestured widely towards the outside of his yurt, “Out there, you hunt. In here, around people, you work to make things better for everyone, not just you. People are not prey.”_

_“I do leave it out there,” he asserted his innocence. His father was always so dramatic with his speeches about personal responsibility. Revas had just won a fight over someone who had been gloating for days. He didn’t want to be bogged down with a lecture._

_“You don’t. You let it run your life and make everything into a game of who you can beat. What happens when there’s nothing else to win? What happens when you’ve reached the peak of the mountain?”_

_“I don’t know,” he responded snappily. His father’s patronizing was annoying him._

_“I do,” Heliwr took the unfinished arrow out of his hand and stuffed it back into the quiver, along with his own, “When you’re on top of the mountain and have nowhere else to climb, the only direction you can go is_ down _.”_

_Heliwr put his fletching implements away and grabbed his bow from the top of his wooden chest, “Go get that cut on your face cleaned up then head over and help your mother. Try not to fight anything on the way there.”_

_“Whatever,” he said under his breath as he watched his father leave the yurt, mutiny brewing in his stomach. Heliwr was always trying to pull him back, always trying to steer him towards being mediocre. Maybe his dad was scared that he’d be better than him too? He’d show him. There’s always something else to win. There was no top of the mountain._

“Revas, my hands are cold!” Belis tugged on the leather belt that hung at his waist, snapping him out of his thoughts, “Is it time for lunch yet?”

He looked around the training grounds and saw that it had mostly emptied. The smell of stew cooking on the wind confirmed that it was midday, and also confirmed that Revas had lost track of time as he pushed his little group to do better. Though Belis had been the one to ask, they all looked at him with pleading eyes.

“Yeah, it’s time to eat,” he agreed with her and Belis let out a dramatic sigh of relief, letting go of his belt, “Go on, everyone. Get some food. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

The children ran off the training grounds in a flurry of screams and jokes, all of them happy to be away from work and closer to the time they get to play. Revas remembered those times, perhaps a little too clearly now. Chasing Elain around the grounds and pulling her hair for calling him names, rolling in the dirt with his cousins and friends, being bored out of his mind in his lessons with the Loremaster and counting the second until he could go practice with his bow again. He remembered his father again too. 

His thoughts were going to Heliwr more and more as of late. The games they used to play together, the rides on his shoulders, his first lesson with a bow with him...they were all comforting and safe. But memories like their fights when Revas rushed into situations with his fists raised and his heart bared were what he thought of most now. For so long, it was all idyllic, but Revas had the misfortune of losing Heliwr when his blood ran hot and his temper ran hotter. The days when he father was his hero and infallible were long over when he dropped the oak branch on his cloth-wrapped body.

He wished his dad was still around to help him now though. Revas didn’t know anything about raising children, about being a father. The doubts swam in his mind in quieter moments like these, when he was left with nothing but his own voice. He had so many questions, ones only Heliwr could answer: _How do I make it okay when they hurt? How will I know what’s right and wrong? How do I love my child and Elain at the same time?_

_How can I be more like you?_

“What’s the matter, Shem’assan? Mad that kids don’t fight back?” 

Revas turned around to see Twig, Sorn, and Llyn leaning against the aravel marking the boundary of the training grounds, arms crossed over their chests, their usual mirth replaced by something very serious. They must have been waiting for him to dismiss the apprentices.

“Nah. If a few of them got smart and stood on each other’s shoulders, they might be able to kick my ass,” he shrugged off the teasing with a smile. 

Twig laughed as he pushed off the aravel and approached him, “Shit, if only. Creators know you could use a good ass kicking right now.”

His laughter sounded forced, and Revas noticed that neither Llyn or Sorn were amused, “And I’m guessing that’s what you’re here for?”

“You could say that,” Sorn responded darkly as he motioned to Llyn. They both moved towards him now as well, and Revas suddenly felt tense with the idea of his friends surrounding him. It was obvious they hadn’t stopped by for a friendly chat.

“Wish I could, but Den has me working with apprentices all week and patrolling the perimeters on the late watch. I need to get some food before--”

“I don’t think missing a meal would kill you,” Llyn stopped him from making excuses. 

“What’s going on?” he looked between his three friends, hoping this wasn’t a situation that would escalate. Since the whole clan found out about him and Elain, the stares and taunts from the artisans had been frequent, but the hunters on the whole had remained silent. He thought that might have been Den’s doing, but now he questioned whether that was the case.

“Don’t play stupid. You know why we’re here. ” Sorn snapped at him, “And unless you want to get exiled or worse, you should probably listen to what we have to say.”

Revas raised his hands in apology, and in an attempt to diffuse some of the tension, “Alright, alright. I’m all ears.”

“We’ll see about that,” Llyn said under his breath. Twig nudged him gently with his elbow.

“We’re all friends here,” he reprimanded Sorn and Llyn, playing the mediator, as always, “No need to get nasty. Let’s just talk it out like friends are supposed to.”

“Friends don’t lie to each other. Friends don’t hide secrets for twelve years. Friends trust each other,” Sorn answered bitterly, “I think Revas didn’t get the lesson on that.”

“So maybe we teach him one,” Llyn said threateningly. He was trying to bait him into a fight. Revas stood still, but felt a twitch --some kind of impulse-- to curl his hand into a fist. He took in a deep breath to rein his temper in.

“No. It’s too late for that,” Sorn responded, “Besides, this is more Elain’s fault than his. We all know who moves the pieces around.”

There was something about Sorn’s dismissal of his part in this affair that made his stomach sink. He had made a choice. Elain hadn’t forced him to do anything. He could’ve told them at any time.

“It’s my fault too,” he argued gently, trying not to give Llyn an excuse to make a stupid mistake, “I take responsibility for that.”

“You might wanna rethink that, though,” Twig calmly, attempting to shift the tone of the conversation. It was obviously too cold for him, “Look, we know you have to try to protect Elain. You’ve been doing it so long, it’s just second nature by now. And she’s having your kid. I _get_ it. But when it comes down to it, if she has to choose between saving herself and the Mantle or saving you….we all know she’ll pick the Mantle every time.”

“You _don’t_ know that,” he clenched his jaw when he said it, but he couldn’t help feel that familiar doubt set in at the back of his mind. 

“Not for sure, no, but we’ve all worked with her long enough to get a sense,” he explained himself, “And nothing is more important to her than that title.”

“We’re trying to protect you. Just hear us out,” Sorn cut in, “The hunters remember that you’ve been the one working with them while Elain did her politicking. They remember who stood with them at Minanter. No one wants to see you fail now, not with the Diceni breathing down our necks.”

“The hunters are afraid of the Diceni?” he asked him earnestly. Since he and Elain had revealed their secret, Revas hadn’t had a chance to get his ear to the ground on what the hunters were thinking. Too many days dealing with children.

“Terrified,” Llyn answered, “Everyone knows what happens when the Diceni absorb clans. Only the best hunters are recruited for their army, and the rest are sent to work the farmland on rotation. It’s the job of wounded veterans and those who can’t do anything else. Not the life we signed up for.”

“Elain may be selfish, but she’s always done right by her hunters,” Twig spoke up, “When Bran died at the Conclave, she was the one who made sure his family was taken care of before Council could get their shit together. Same with the ones lost at Minanter. And even if she hasn’t always been present, she made sure you were there so we didn’t forget that she has her eyes on us. We’ve never felt neglected under her watch.”

“We’d like to keep it that way. When it comes down to it, if we have the choice between the Diceni and the Maiden, we’ll side with the Maiden. No one wants to see what living under Threlen’s command is like,” Sorn explained, “I’ve had eyes in Council and among the artisans, and the Ethinan have been intercepting messages to the Diceni. A lot of people want her ousted. We want to help stop that.”

“And how do I come into this?” Revas knew they would want something in return. Blind support wasn’t possible anymore.

“You are the only one who Elain actually listens to,” Sorn started, “I had her ear because I always gave her information, but you have her trust, and trust is going to get you a hell of a lot farther with her. Help us help you. Get her to follow our suggestions, and we can steer the hunters onto her side without a problem.”

“You’re overestimating how much she listens to me…”

“Convince her it’s for her own good. Tell her it’s for your own good, your kid’s own good. We’re just trying to help you out here,” Twig advised him, “You know I’ve been burned by her --Sorn too-- but Elain is the only thing keeping Paeris from making an example of us to the dissenting clans. And I won’t waste my life bent over a plot of land, growing grain for the Diceni’s standing army, no matter how much she fucked up.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Llyn agreed, “If we support her through you, she might be more willing to listen to us. And if she’s more willing to listen to us, we can make trouble for Keeper Paeris and Council. The hunters still outnumber everyone else in the clan. We’re still Lavellan’s meal ticket, no matter what Twig’s asshole dad thinks.”

“I don’t know,” he said. He was reluctant to try to use Elain to get the hunters to back him, “I’ve got to watch my steps very carefully now. Any mistake could be my last.”

“The hunters are still the backbone of the clan. If they’re on your side, not even Vhannas can get rid of you,” Sorn assured him, getting right to the core of Revas’ fears. 

He didn’t want to have his life taken from him. He didn’t want someone else to have that power over him. After everything, he was still a free man, and he was unsettled that people like Elain’s father could snatch that freedom away. 

_What would you do, Pa?_ he asked himself. He needed Heliwr now more than ever, but when he looked in his memories for the path he should take, there was nothing there. His father was never one to make a stand, never one to make a statement. He lived his life by the gods, for the clan, and without any regrets. It was a peaceful existence, one that followed a safe path with little resistance. His father would never have blasphemed, never broken an oath. He wouldn’t have answers for Revas.

It was up to him to make the choices. No one else would fight for him; Heliwr’s ghost wouldn’t magically have the solution. And Elain...as much as he loved her, he knew there was some truth to his friends’ concerns. The Mantle was her life. She would resist giving it up as much as he resisted giving up his freedom. He couldn’t count on her to save him, no matter how much he wanted to. It all rested on his shoulders, and if he didn’t stand for himself, his child wouldn’t even have memories of him to fall back on.

“Alright, I’m in. What do you need from me?”

\---

Elain rose early that morning, two hours before dawn. Her back ached terribly and she had barely slept at all, but that was nothing new. It was the same as yesterday, and it will be the same tomorrow, so there was no point in making excuses and neglecting what needed to be done. She had already spent too much time doing just that. 

She dressed as quietly as she could, trying not to wake Revas. Den had him patrolling on the last watch as ‘punishment’, and he had only arrived into her warm cot an hour or so prior. He mumbled in his sleep when she slipped her long cloak over her shoulders, but for the most part, he rested undisturbed. She opened the entrance of her yurt, looking back on him once more before she left, and sighed softly at his resting form. _He’s worth the price,_ she reminded herself.

The walk to the other side of camp was slow and nerve-wracking. Every step felt heavier and heavier, and by the time she reached her destination, Elain felt as if she had carried this burden for a lifetime. She stared at the workshop, pristine and quiet in the hours before dawn, but she also heard the steady clang of a hammer hitting a piece of metal breaking through that quiet. It was disciplined and precise, just like him, and she felt knots twisting and turning in her stomach at the thought of approaching him now. 

But she had waited long enough. Too long, in fact. Nearly a decade too long, and those were years he would never let her own again.She squared her shoulders and strode into her father’s work area with as much pride as she could muster, and stood behind him, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

He lifted his head slightly when he heard her approach, but turned it down again immediately to continue his work.

“It’s not enough you desecrate your own body. Now you must spread your shame to my safe haven,” he spat the words like a curse, his hammer slamming into the metal with excessive force. 

The first blow would be the hardest, she knew. He was angry, and even when he was not, his words were never spoken lightly. The shame she felt festered in her chest, despite knowing that this would happen. 

“Papae...” she started, and at the word, he tossed the hammer on his workbench and turned around to face her. Rage settled on his face like a mask, and the man she knew as her father was nearly unrecognizable.

“You dare call me that,” he said darkly, his voice nearly quaking, “After everything you’ve done, everything you’ve forsaken.”

The tears already welled up in her eyes. She would not be able to stop them when they came, “I’m sorry, Papae. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” he scoffed, “If only it were so simple! Anyone can heal from a hurt. Wounds are mended, and even limbs can be severed if they threaten the whole. You have _destroyed_ me, Elain.There are no pieces to sew back together. This is nothing to heal. Everything I have done for you, everything I have sacrificed for you, gone! Like dust slipping through my hands.”

“I didn’t want--”

“Enough. I do not want to hear your excuses. The filth of your deception drips from your mouth.”

She cried openly now. Large, dense tears poured over her cheeks, and she shook with shame. Thought she tried to stop herself, pitiful whimpers also escaped her. She wanted nothing more for this to be over, and for her father to comfort her again. For everything to be back how it was.

“Look at you,” he sneered, “Weeping like a child now. You truly have learned nothing from me.”

“That’s not true!” she shot back desperately, the tears soaking her face and making her nose drip, “I learned everything from you! But I--”

“You learned nothing from me if you were willing to throw everything away because you couldn’t keep your legs closed around that...that _beast_ ,” the last words left his mouth through clenched teeth.

“That’s not fair,” her lip quivered uncontrollably as she attempted to defend herself, “It’s much more than that. We love each other…”

“Bah!” Vhannas threw his hands up in the air, “You’re more pathetic than I thought. I raised my child to not fall into traps of sentimentality, and you were led right in like a mindless animal. No man between your thighs is worth the power you have. No words of love are more important the the words you say as Maiden. I raised you up to grab that Mantle and take what was yours by rights, and you have given it all up without a second thought to be a milk sow for _that beast’s spawn._ Do you sleep well knowing that you’ve lost everything you were so you could become just another docile little swine, doing nothing but making children that will be empty headed and mediocre, like all these other blasted hunters? _”_

She shook her head violently as she sobbed, unable to form the words after his barrage of insults. They penetrated her like carefully shot arrows; each pointed barb hitting it’s mark with pinpoint precision. 

“You can’t even speak, you sniveling child. How _far_ you have fallen,” his voice was as sharp as steel, and his eyes staring right through her even sharper, “This parasite is already sucking the will out of you. There is truly nothing left worth saving.”

“I won’t let you degrade me like this,” she finally found her voice, though it came meekly. She may have fallen, but she hadn’t hit the ground yet, “I’m not powerless yet.”

“You can’t even stand up against me. What makes you think you even deserve to be respected?” his question was full of venom. He didn’t expect an answer from her. Vhannas only wanted to subdue her, make her easy to mold, tear her down so he could build her back up. Her body shook with her sobs, and she felt this all the way to her bones that his plan was working. Elain felt compelled to say anything to make him love her again, to make him _respect_ her again. She spent so long earning it, and having it taken away so abruptly left her reaching out in the darkness, blind. 

And she suddenly understood why she knew so intimately what he would do to break her. She knew because she would do that same thing. She had done the same thing, many times before.

She always was her father’s daughter.

“Enough, Vhannas. I won’t hear this anymore.”

_Never again. I won’t be that._ She was her father’s daughter, but Sohta’s fire still burned in her. And Old Bida’s determination. He hadn’t raised her up alone.

“You haven’t heard anything I’ve said in the first place--” he started, but it was her turn to interrupt. The despair that had crept over her in his campaign to weaken her will had left and been replaced by the force of will only she could muster. She was not wearing the Mantle now, but she imagined it’s phantom weight bearing down on her, giving her strength to do what had to be done.

“I’ve heard you giving yourself credit for my Mantle. I’ve heard you insulting the father of my child --your grandchild. I’ve heard you rant and rave and tantrum like an infant. And I’ve had enough. I refuse to let you take away what I have done,” the courage was coming to her, and her voice carried as she patronized him, “You didn’t spend that time alone in the Vimmarks. You haven’t seen battle and death. You are content to sit here in your workshop, watching all the ants scurry underneath you, doing all the dirty work, while your hands stay clean. You did not earn this title. _I did_. With my blood. With my sweat. And by my will. Mine alone. Don’t you dare assume that supporting me means carrying the weight I carry!”

His face turned downward, the rage dissipating and leaving way for his normal coldness, but she would not be deterred. 

“No one will take what I have earned from me. Not you, not the Council, not Paeris, and _not this child_ ,” she warned him as the wet tears still flowed down her face, “You can say whatever you want about me, but I will now allow it.”

His brow creased in thought, and he brought his hand to his chin. He was reflecting on her words deeply, and she shifted her weight between her legs in nervous energy.

“There is a way to fix this. You do not have to lose anything,” he finally said, but the emotion from before had left his voice completely. He was back to Vhannas the Craftmaster; the man entirely in control of his feelings, “You need only say a few words and everything can be made right.”

The insinuation was not concealed in the slightest. She knew her father better than anyone, and she knew exactly what he was alluding to.

“No,” she said firmly. 

“And why not? You want to keep your Mantle, your power? I am willing to help, though you’ve broken my heart,” he guilted her, “But you must make concessions. If you did not consent, then your dignity was taken, not given.”

“No,” she said again, “I will do many things I am not proud of to keep this, but I won’t do that.”

His mouth went stiff, as did the rest of him, and he stepped around her, “Then you are a fool who will lose it all.”

He made his way out of his workshop, but she wasn’t finished. There was still so much more to say.

“Papae,” she called after him. He did not stop walking, but he gave his response to her stand with a harrowing conviction as he left her alone near his deserted forge.

“I have no daughter.”

 


	22. Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een finds home in unexpected places; Elain and Revas have a quiet moment

The Herald’s Rest was buzzing with excitement. Maryden played a happy song, and a group of Inquisition soldiers sang along with her loudly. Several scullery maids danced, their elbows hooked together, swinging their bodies around the floor of the tavern. One of them giggled fetchingly as she bumped into Krem of the Chargers, spilling his drink, but he didn’t seem to mind. Everyone was covered in booze of all kinds from careless hands and carefully crafted stunts, and it only added to the merriment of the moment. 

On the second story of the tavern, Sar’een sat with her friends, a mug of ale in her hand, and her head glowing from the strong drink. She brought her mug to her lips over and over, sipping the bitter brew, feeling her ears and cheeks burn warmly, as she listened earnestly to the story Iron Bull attempted to tell. 

“You’d think the Red Templars would’ve quit then, right?” he asked the gathered group, their eyes glittering with mirth from the joyful evening, “But nope! Assholes just kept coming. Didn’t show any signs of stopping either.”

“But we weren’t about to let some prickly red candy boys hurt any little people!” Sera cut in loudly, her own mug empty for the sixth or seventh time that night. She sloppily filled her cup again under the wooden tap near the table while Varric attempted to hold her up by her shirt to keep her from falling off the bench.

“Right,” Bull confirmed, “So we’re defending the Emprise villagers that had been imprisoned in these little rolling cages. They’re non-combatants, so seeing these big, glowing hunks of lyrium all sticking out of the Templars was scaring them something fierce. Then, some of their shock troops were getting a little too close for comfort.”

“Too close?! One of them almost bit me! I woulda turned into a piece of red lyrium!” Sera shouted dramatically, falling backwards onto an amused Blackwall. He laughed and pushed her off back towards the table where she grabbed someone’s drink, took a swig, then slammed it back on the wooden tabletop. Sar’een laughed along with them and took another deep gulp from her own mug. Her entire face felt like summer.

“Augh,” Cassandra made a noise to express her distaste at Sera’s antics, “That’s _not_ how red lyrium works.”

“Who cares how it works? Let’s hear the rest of the story,” Varric nudged Bull on. 

“Okay, anyways,” Iron Bull picked up where he left off, “So we’re backed up against the cages; Sera’s picking off some with her arrows, I’m swinging at anything that comes too close, Solas is setting up barriers, and Boss is putting up an ice wall to stop anymore from breaking through. It’s working well for awhile, but they start to group up on the other side of that wall. At this point, we’ve got ourselves in a little corner, so if they broke through, we’d be in some trouble.”

“You can just see the Boss’ eyes scanning the situation. Just looking over all the options. The wall is starting to weaken, most of us have our hands busy, and we’re two minutes away from ending with our asses up in the air, waiting for the Red Templars to spank us.”

“It wassn that diiiiiiiire,” Sar’een slurred the words as she tried to assure her friends, especially after she saw Cassandra blanche, but Bull shook his head before taking a drink directly out of the bottle of whiskey he was nursing. 

“Don’t let her fool you; it was bad. Real hairy.”

“Hairier than Blackwall’s arse!” Sera fell over into the Grey Warden again, screeching at her own joke. Sar’een’s face stretched into the widest grin, and a deep laugh from her gut worked its way out to match Sera and Blackwall’s own mirthful wails. Everything just seemed funnier when she was drinking human ale.

“Probably even hairier than that,” Bull agreed with her, “So I’m keeping an eye on the Boss, and she’s keeping an eye on that wall, and things are looking pretty fucked. But then she turns to Solas and tells him, _‘Pull them together for me!’_ Sure enough, Solas casts some magic spell thingie that pulls that group together, but it’s not going to last long, you know? So then she turns towards me, and just says one thing: ‘ _Time for Project Mayhem’_.”

“SHUT IT! She actually _said it_?!” Sera pounded her fist against the table. 

“Stop interrupting!” Cassandra chided her, “I want to hear how it ends.”

Bull cleared his throat and continued, “I thought she was shitting me at first, but she had this determined look in her eye? You know the one.”

“The one that looks like Gallian from Seheron; liquid and dark, like deep waters swallowing you up. _I can’t swim_ , you say but you like to drown anyways.”

“Yeah, alright Cole, remember what we talked about doing the creepy thing while I’m trying to relax?” Bull asked the boy. 

“Yes,” he replied, “You don’t want me to.”

“Exactly,” Bull pointed out before moving on, “Now she gives me the look, and without even giving it a second thought, I just drop my sword. Right there. Right on the ground. Solas’ spell is going to wear off any second, Sera’s on her last few arrows, and here I am, disarming myself. But Boss drops her staff too, and she just bolts at me at top speed. I grab her, lift her up in the air, spin around a couple of time to get some momentum, then launch her noodly ass right towards the red templars.”

“I don’t have a noodly...you knoooow!” Sar’een felt herself blushing. Or was it flushing? She couldn’t remember the word. Her mug was close to being empty. 

“Noodly enough for me to toss you like a doll,” Bull replied jovially, “And so she’s flying through the air and suddenly, _SWOOSH_! Disappeared completely. Vanished midair. I’m picking up my sword off the ground, thinking ‘ _This is it. This is how I die_.” But Boss reappears _in the middle of the red templars_! They didn’t even get a chance to look at her before the whole damn piece of reality shifts around her, and every single last one of them goes flying!”

“Issh called _‘fade croaks’,_ ” Sar’een whispered to Cassandra to clarify the feat of magic she performed.

“I think you mean ‘Fade Cloak’, Inquisitor,” the Seeker answered her with a twitch at the corner of her mouth for a grin.

“The fade doesn’t croak or cloak,” Cole commented with confusion, “It pulls and tugs, like silk against skin, draped where the limbs move.”

“Ssshhhh, I’m trying to tell a story here!” Bull looked between the group impatiently, “So all these templars are down, and you’d assume that’s enough for the Boss to let us come back her up, but Nope! She’s on them like Fereldan on a brick of cheese, waving that glow sword of hers around…”

“My SPIRNIT BLADE!” Sar’een corrected him loudly.

“Right, she’s swiping them with her ‘ _spirnit blade_ ’ like crazy, like she’s possessed. I even get worried for a minute she might be. Demons have been crawling up our asses at every turn, so it’s not a stretch right? She’s killing every red templar she sees, wailing in on them, and me, Solas, and Sera just end up standing there, staring at her, not even knowing what to say.”

“I knew what to say! Friggin’ SCARY!” Sera exclaimed. 

“Scary in a really bad ass way though,” Bull agreed and elaborated, his deep voice making Sar’een’s chest feel warm. Or maybe it was the ale? Everything was so warm, “In the end, there’s an entire group of dead red templars and a The Inquisitor just standing in the middle, a big grin on her face, and she just says….”

He paused dramatically, looking at the faces of the waiting group of friends.

“ _Project Mayham was a success!_ ”

The entire group broke out in laughter --Sar’een included-- at the cheeky end to the dramatic retelling of the Liberation of the Emprise du Lion. Her throat was dry with so much laughing, so she drank the rest of her ale down in one large gulp, and she realized that for the first time in a very, very long time, she was content. She was surrounded by friends, enjoying hearing stories and making new ones with their time spent drinking happily. Sera’s exuberance, Cassandra’s rare full-bodied laugh, Blackwall’s mischievous side, Varric finally being able to relax a bit, and even Cole’s intersparsed commentary….it made her feel comfortable. At home. Like she belonged.

And gods, she had missed that.

“Did you really plan this all out? It’s insane!” Cassandra asked her with a mirthful disbelief. Sar’een nodded vigorously.

“I did!” she said excitedly before reaching into her robes and pulling out a tattered piece of parchment, “Lookit this MAAAAP!”

She slammed the map down on the table, mimicking Sera’s flair for drama, and proudly displayed her work with wide eyes and an even wider grin.

“That’s a map?” Cassandra asked her as the rest of her companions laughed even more uncontrollably, “It looks like scribbles.”

The map was full of red markings, blue markings, green markings, and various spills and stains. Most of the ink dripped down and off the edges from being stored in her robes, her sweat soaking the parchment through. The red markings had little horns to denote Iron Bull at one point. She realized they didn’t anymore. 

“Yesh, itsa map,” the words didn’t like coming out of her mouth right. They felt heavy and slow, “Look, I’m the green one.”

Her finger fell onto the green figure on the map, but it was not as green as she remembered it. It was much more blue. In fact, it was blue. Blue like the Minanter in spring. She had pointed to the wrong figure. 

“Whoopsh,” she said clumsily before moving her finger again, this time missing the entire map, “Well, you knows what I mean.”

“Do you always draw your battle maneuvers?” Blackwall asked her, his face red from laughter and tears threatening to pour over his face.

“Yesh,” she replied as seriously as she could muster, “As my Hahren alwaysh say ‘ _Sar’een, a poor plan ish better than no plans_!’”

“Wait!” Sera cried out abruptly, “Your name is _Sar’een_?!”

She immediately felt sober. And sick. Her stomach turned and swirled, and all that ale sitting there didn’t want to sit anymore. It crept up into her throat, burning her insides along the way, and all Sar’een could do was swallow deeply. The shame flushed her face even more.

“Um, yeahsh,” she sputtered out, her tongue still heavy like lead, slurring the words, “Sar’een.” Her name felt heavy on her lips too, like a tiny little weight dragging her down. She was not the only one weighed down; the happy little moment was spoiled, and her friends no longer laughed.

“Sar’een,” Cassandra whispered the name gently, attempting to pronounce it correctly, “Saaaar’eeeen.”

She looked down at her hands, embarrassed, feeling exposed, feeling regretful. It was her name. It was supposed to be protected. It’s the way of Lavellan. Humans would use it against her, use it to hurt her. It’s what she was always taught, what all the children were taught. She would sit quietly with her friends while they listened to Loremaster Kellen drone on and on.

_“This is why the Dalish of the North protect our names. The Shemlen will even use that to take our freedom away.”_

It had always been about what the shems could take away. Your freedom, your name, your life. Nothing was sacred to them. Elves were just a step above animals, and not any better than animals in some cases. They would hunt the Dalish until every last vestige of the greatness they had been was dead and gone from this world. That was what she had always known. That was her truth. 

But she looked on her friends now, their faces concerned as they waited for her to say something. Some of them human. Some of them dwarves. Some elves like her, but not like her. None of them Dalish. And yet....she couldn’t recall them taking anything from her. 

They had only given. Given graciously and fully and stood behind her when she had felt like the last person in the world. None of what she had accomplished could’ve been done without these shemlen. Her friends. 

“I like it,” Varric finally said in his assuring way, “It fits you.” 

She gave him a shy smile for the compliment, “Thank youuu. It’ssh been so long shince I’ve heard anyone saying my name…”

“Sorry we’re late!” Josephine called from the stairs leading up to the second floor of the tavern, Dorian and Solas trailing behind her, “I had to pull these two away from an old tomes our agents finally brought back from the library in the Western Approach.”

Her friends pulled up chairs to the table, joining the rest of them for the evening, “I refuse to apologize. An original transcript of the _Mattrica Solemnarius_ is worth every minute of my waking life.”

“And my slumbering one, for the time being,” Solas piped in. Josephine sighed lightly, most likely at their inability to understand the importance of being punctual. 

“Did we miss anything?” she asked Sar’een, a genuine, happy smile gracing her lips. 

Sar’een wondered why she ever felt that she wasn’t safe around them. Their faces were lit with lanterns of the tavern, with the alcohol they had all drank, the stories they had all shared….it was no different than home. The faces changed, but the idea was still the same. Home. The bittersweet longing she felt for the clan was still there, but now, she felt some new sense of belonging filling her heart.

“Yesss, you did,” she responded sweetly, overwhelmed with the realization of her love for her new family. They looked on her expectantly.

“My name ish Sar’een. Pleashed to meet you.”

\---

Revas didn’t notice her watching him. He was so involved in wrangling the hunter apprentices, it was as if the rest of the world disappeared. Elain leaned against the tree marking the boundary of the training grounds though, her keen eyes not missing anything. The way he treated the young apprentices as if they were in maturity instead of the children they were, the way he scolded them for their poor form, the way he encouraged them by building them up instead of tearing them down….

It was unlike her to be sentimental, but there was something undeniably endearing about seeing him adjust the tiny bow in the small apprentices’ hand, gently guiding them to shoot straight and true. After all that had happened in the past week, it was almost calming to let it wash over her. There was no judgment, no harsh words. In this moment, there was only her love and the beautiful understanding that she no longer needed to hide it. She may lose it all and it still didn’t make it any easier to let go, but at least there was still this right now. Elain decided she needed to live in the moments like these more often.

When he made a pass over the little archers again, making sure their backs were straight and eyes were focused, he finally noticed her. Revas stopped adjusting tiny Belis’ shoulders and the look he gave her reminded her of a day long since passed; pure yearning mixed with the confusion of his heart. She met his gaze just as coyly as she did when they were younger and things were easier, though it seemed difficult at the time. How naive she had been. 

“Keep practicing,” he ordered his students, “Try to hit the targets with the blunted shafts, and do your sprints when you go to pick them up. I’ll be right back.”

He slowly jogged up to her, passing over the other lead hunters doing their own training, earning him some shaking heads and teasing chuckles. To her relief, he didn’t seem to care. Where she would care too much, he no longer held any concerns what others thought. There had been not one complaint or any expressed frustration at his having to work under Den again. All it had been was another challenge for him to overcome, another competition to win, another way to prove himself. Revas had done more for her cause than anything she had so far by his drive alone.

And Elain knew she didn’t deserve it.

“Hey,” he greeted her happily, “What are you doing here?”

“A little bird told me you’ve been missing meals to take on extra apprentices since the lead hunters are overloaded,” she explained, then lifted the basket she had brought with her, “And since you have been so helpful and saved so many more hunters from being lost at Minanter…..well, the least I can do is bring you some food.”

“You packed me a lunch?” he grinned wildly, full of amusement at her gesture, “I didn’t know my Peach could be so domestic.”

The corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile, and she took his hand in hers to lead him to a place to sit. He went willingly and interlaced his cold fingers in between hers as she guided him to a tree trunk that had been converted to a bench. She sat her backet on the ground, then reached inside of it, pulling out a small blanket woven with delicate embroidery of hallas jumping and playing. Elain shook the blanket out and set it over the bench, then motioned for him to sit on it. Revas gave a small chuckle and did what she asked. 

“You really went to a lot of trouble for this,” he commented as she lifted a clay bowl full of the cold, shredded duck from breakfast out of the basket. She passed him the bowl, and he set it down gently on the bench. 

“I wanted to make sure you were eating enough,” she replied plainly, handing over another bowl, this one full of cooked turnips covered in halla butter. His eyes grew wide at the spread, and she knew the concern about his eating Llyn had passed to her was warranted. Elain picked up the duck and dumped it into the bowl of turnips and mashed them together.

She gave him the bowl and a wooden spoon and urged him to eat. He took it eagerly from her hands and began to devour the little meal she had procured for him, barely stopping to breathe. She sat next to him on the bench, content in her work. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to eat,” he said between spoonfuls of food, “It’s just busy. All the hunters are doing extra work after the battle. We’ve got to pick up the slack for the ones not able to do their job anymore.”

She raised her eyebrow, “ _‘We’_? I assume that means they’re not shunning you.”

He shook his head, “They never did. I’ve told you a thousand times, El; you need to get back into the field with them. They respect anyone who pulls their weight, including us.”

“That’s not really an option anymore,” she said defeatedly, looking on her waist. The swell of stomach was beginning to show visibly through her clothes, and every time she glanced down now, she was reminded of her impending doom. 

“You don’t have to be hunting to show solidarity. There’s lots of stuff you could do...like helping train the apprentices,” he suggested, and she frowned deeply at the thought. 

“I have my hands full with letters and visiting emissaries. There’s no time for me to play nanny to everyone else’s child,” she scoffed, pulling her cloak in tightly over her. She didn’t want to see her stomach anymore.

“Fine,” he sighed, obviously getting annoyed with her lack of interest in spending time with the hunters, “But don’t come crying to me when the hunters don’t back you up.”

He finished up his food in silence, and Elain grabbed two tin cups from her basket, along with the canteen she filled with hot milk. She poured the creamy drink into each cup, passing one to Revas and keeping one for herself. He blew on the drink before taking a large mouthful of it. 

“I wanted to see you for another reason,” she said before sipping on her own cup, the salty sweet milk warming her entire body through her mouth, “I received a missive from Wycome.”

“Oh yeah?” he took a deep gulp, draining the rest of his cup.

“Yes. My friend had some very interesting descriptions of life in the city,” she reached into the pocket on the inside of cloak and pulled out the paper, handing it off to him, “Read it.”

He set his cup down and unfolded the paper, his face contorting into a frown when he realized who it was from. 

“You didn’t tell me he was your informant in Wycome,” he whispered to her angrily, and she shrugged her shoulders.

“Just read it.”

_My heart,_

_How I long for your warm bed in this cold city! Nothing has been the same without your sharp tongue to wound me and your soft bosom to comfort me. If only my work that you insisted on hasn’t forced me away from you._

_Wycome is the pearl of the Free Marches they say, but I say it smells like a giant oyster. The alienage is used as a dumping ground for all the rotten fish in the city, and the elves are forced to live among filth. Most of them work on the docks, so they don’t notice the horrible stench. It’s strange then that a plague ravages parts of the city that are relatively clean, including the noble estates of the Poppy Avenue. So strange, in fact, that the city guards are whispering about Dalish elves cursing the city for its treatment of their cousins living in the squalor of the alienage. It is hard to be an elf in Wycome right now._

_I hope to make enough money to return to your arms soon! There have been rumors even here of your...disposition, and I want to see it with my own eyes. Pray for my swift return, my heart, so that I can see you glow as the life we built together grows inside of you, and I will pray that no shadow snuck into your bed in my absence!_

_All my love,_

_S._

_-Transcribed by Lily Ondine Eloitte DeFoile Beauregard of the Gilded Oyster, courtesan and transcriptionist. **Client note:** Don’t worry love, she meant nothing to me. If you could send more coin though, it would be appreciated. Madame Beauregard’s ‘transcription’ services are quite pricey._

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Revas…” she started, setting her hand on his forearm gently.

“I don’t know why you bother with this bag of shit at all,” Revas spat out before crumpling the missive and shoving it back towards her, “He didn’t give you anything we don’t already know. All he does is run his mouth and piss me off. ”

“He told us that the nobles are being affected by this plague,” she pointed out, “And that they’re blaming us. This is dangerous.”

“They already came into Autini once and regretted it. Let them come again,” he replied bitterly. She took his cup and hers and packed them back away. He watched her intently, his jaw clenched and brow creased in thought.

“That’s a foolish way to plan for the worst, and you know it. You also know that next time they may come with the Amalgamated Guard. Or worse...the Free Army,” she reminded him of exactly how dangerous the nobles in the Free Marches were. They were not above wiping out threats that they deemed credible, “Let your grudge against Sarrion go and use the information he gave us. This is bigger than your petty anger.”

He let his shoulders go limp at her words, and let out a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, you’re right. Always right. We’ll talk to Den about getting more weapons requisitioned from the artisans. Llyn needs to tighten up his scout patrols too. I’ve been on the late shift and the rotations are sloppy,” he relented and stood up from his seat on the bench, “But right now, I’ve got to get back. The apprentices are getting rowdy.”

She looked to see the little group running in circles, chasing each other, and she was reminded of her own time as a child on the training grounds. Some things never changed; it was their clan’s great luck that it was the carefree freedom of childhood passed on each generation that stayed the same. 

Elain packed away her blanket back into her basket, and followed Revas onto the training grounds again. He paused before the setup where the apprentices were running wild and squealing at their game, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, “I appreciate you thinking about me.”

“You’re welcome,” she brought her hand to his jaw, her fingertips stroking his cheek, “Thank you for not losing your temper.”

He grinned widely, “I’m trying.”

Elain returned his smile and dropped her hand, but he wasn’t satisfied with a few exchanged words, and pulled her into a kiss. It was soft and warm and full of the appreciation they had both shared, magnified by their physical contact. His lips tasted salty and sweet like the milk, and instead of worrying about the other hunters on the training grounds watching, she closed her eyes and let herself get lost in him. 

She did not regret it. This is what she knew he had wanted for a long time, and as her mouth met his and her heart melted in her chest --like beeswax touched by a flame-- she felt that maybe she wanted this too. At least for right now. 

“Oh Creators, he’s kissing her!” a little voice called out in disgust, followed by a chorus of giggles of his little troupe spying on their moment. 

He pulled away at the disruption, and turned to face the offending party. 

“Belis, if you were half as good with a bow as you are at distracting everyone, you’d be the one doing the teaching,” he lectured the girl, earning him more giggles. He looked back to her briefly, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek in apology, “I have to get back to work. Can I see you later?”

She flashed him a wicked smile, “If you’re good.”

His cheeks reddened in a slight blush at her flirting, but it left quickly as he returned to his work, barking orders at the apprentices. She watched them scramble to pick their training bows back up off the ground and get back into formation at his command. A wistful sigh escaped her as she did so, and she couldn’t prevent herself from imagining how she would reward him later that evening. 

Elain did not expect to hear another wistful sigh behind her. She turned to face her mimic, and found herself looking directly at a hearthworker who was looking back at her dreamily. It was one of Sar’een’s friends, Nellia.

“I’m sorry,” Nellia said, though she didn’t sound apologetic at all, “I’ve just never seen Revas like that! He’s so...well, you know…”

“Dedicated?” Elain suggested.

“No,” she bit her lip and looked towards the sky as she searched for the word, “He’s….well, he’s an asshole. Not so nice to everyone, you know?”

“I’d think carefully on who you insult in my presence,” Elain warned her, surprised as this girl’s lack of tact, “Despite the drama, he is still the Banal’ras.”

Nellia threw her hands in the air dramatically, “Oh no! No no! I didn’t mean it in a bad way at all! I just wanted to comment on how...well how _cute_ you two are! You’re so sweet to each other. It’s just like the stories I’ve been hearing.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah! The ones about your doomed love! Oh, it’s so romantic!” Nellia gushed, “About how you loved your Shadow so much, you risked everything to be with him. And you told him you were pregnant before the big battle and he won it just for you! I didn’t believe it at first, because this is Revas we’re talking about after all, but I saw it! With my own eyes! Everyone is going to be so jealous when I tell them.”

The spies in the Diceni had done their job well. Elain had not expected to hear the rumors spread so far, so quickly, but she knew anyone utilized by Keeper Athim’s wife would get the job done. It would be a relief, if she hadn’t had to endure Nellia’s overly excited chatter.

“Yes, well, hopefully your friends will appreciate hearing you tell them about it,” she couldn’t bring herself to be as excited as Nellia, but she attempted to at least be polite now, “But I won’t keep you any longer--”

“They are going to DIE! I cannot wait,” Nellia giggled into her hands, but then dropped them abruptly, “Oh, but I actually came to talk to you about something.”

“You did?” she asked her absently as she began to move away from the training grounds and onto her next meeting. 

“Yeah! I’ve been wanted to tell you ever since you did that big reveal at Council...I’m pregnant too!”

Elain forced a smile, “Congratulations. I’m sure Arthwyn is very proud--”

“And you know what that means!” she interrupted Elain again, making her eye twitch in annoyance. 

“Not really.”

Nellia took in a deep breath of air before sharing her big news.

“That means we’re pregnant together! And I’m four months too! We’re going to be New Mamae Best Friends!”

Elain’s smile slowly turned into a grimace.

“We can make clothes for each other and practice putting swaddling on the rabbits,” Nellia hooked her arm in Elain’s, lacking any reservations about her brand new friendship with the Maiden, “Oh! And we can ask Sillis to hold her baby for practice, and…”

Nellia’s voice filled her ears and droned on in her mind, sputtering out thoughtless words and making asinine plans. And as Elain stared ahead at the horizon while her shrill voice buzzed like flies, tormenting and torturing her, she knew that this was a hellish prison of her own making. 

\---

“I promise you, lethallin, he had blood dripping right off his face!”

A rogue spun her captivating tale as expertly as she spun her blades in battle, and the gathering in the lodge house were hanging onto almost every word. There were food and drinks aplenty, and no lack of relaxation in the room. Tapestries and trophies hung from the mud-packed walls, making it warm and homey, leaving the crowd in high spirits. It was a bitter cold night on the steppes, and everyone wanted to be warm and to hear what tall tale Sellarin had come up with this time. 

“I don’t know about that Sel. Right after a battle, sure. But they didn’t come back right away,” the doubting Diceni soldier argued with her. 

“You’d think that, yeah,” Sellarin responded flippantly, “But once everything was all said and done, the Banal’ras could stand to be away from the Maiden a moment longer, and ran all the way back to her, covered in the blood of all the humans he killed.”

“Pfff,” the soldier waved her off. She swiped his mug of mead out of his hand and took a gulp, wiping her mouth after on her sleeve. 

“Don’t you know anything about the Maiden?” she asked him with a sparkle in her eye and a jest on her lips, “The Shadow shows up at her yurt, covered in blood --practically soaked in it-- and most normal elves would make him go wash up or call him crazy. But not the Maiden. She’s not deterred in the least bit! She just pulls him right into her room, and Lavellan suddenly hears the Maiden breaking her oaths.”

Raucous laughter broke out in the lodge house, filling the air and making Sellarin grin smugly at her exaggeration. They were eating out of the palm of her hand, and now was a good time to take it even further.

“That’s not even the best part!” she exclaimed, jumping on her chair, “The Keeper walks right by it, and _doesn’t even know!_ At the welcome feast that night, she just comments on how loud the animals were in the valley!”

The laughter grew into a roar, loud enough to wake the dead, and Sellarin takes another swig of mead to congratulate herself. A job well done, a rumor well spread. No one doubted that the passion between the Maiden and her Shadow was real, and everyone loved to hear every aspect of their story. She was proud of how well it went over. It had taken some work, but Sellarin always liked a challenge.

She sat on the back of the wooden chair, balancing her feet on the armrests, and raised her cup, “Now...who wants to hear about how Craftmaster Vhannas put a hit out on the Shadow?”

There were cheers and more laughter, and she took it as good time to vilify the Maiden’s father.

“So the Craftmaster has always hated the Shadow. Every since he was a baby. Some people in Lavellan say it was because he was jealous his own son wasn’t as strong and talented, right?” she started, only to feel Darvel tugging on her arm.

“Sel…”

“Well, the Shadow grows up around his daughter, and that just grinds his teeth to the root. This little kid was playing with his future Maiden, tempting her away from the oaths she’d take,” she ignored him, continuing her story, but he was persistent.

“Sellarin,” he yanked on her arm this time. 

“Stop Darvel, I’m in the middle of something,” she chided him, “He tries to get his son --our keeper, you know-- to put himself between the two, but Vhannas just ends up making things worse. Our Keeper uses his failure to his advantage and--”

“ _ **Sellarain!**_ ” Darvel nearly yelled and turned her chair around aggressively.

Standing behind her was none other than Keeper Paeris himself, back from his trip to Antiva, and looking not even a little bit amused as her story. She swallowed nervously, and set down her mug on the table as the entire room went quiet, everyone afraid of invoking the ire of the Keeper. It was probably a good thing too. He already looked pretty angry. His hands were tucked behind his back, his topknot was high, and his robes of authority immaculate; a far cry from the travel-wearing man anyone would expect him to be after such a long trip. Worst of all though was his face. It looked as if it was made entirely of stone. She cleared her throat expectantly as he stared at her, but a slight twitch of his brow showed her that had been the wrong thing to do. 

“Come with me, Sellarin. I think we are due for a long discussion.”


	23. Act Two: Wycome -- Imminent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring arrives in Autini Valley and brings new challenges for Elain and Clan Lavellan.

_The paths of the Black Forest were well-trodden now. The glassy jet grass that was trampled over and bled into sat shattered and broken on the narrow passages between the towering trees. It seemed to be lit within; a dull, golden glow permeating the pathways, making the obsidian leaves rustling above them reflect it softly. Gold dust covered the path as well, like dirt that had been tracked by weary boots, dragging over a rough terrain._

_But there were no boots in the Goddess’ domain to protect the soft soles of Elain’s feet. There were no layers of clothes to keep out the gentle wind that punctured like knives with every gust. There was no leather armor to stop the cuts and abrasions the Black Forest left on her body. Her blood dripped and bloomed on the dark path that she walked now. With every drop that touched the ground, a brilliant, golden blossom erupted, making more of the golden dust that seeped into the cuts, leaving her breathless with want and breathless in pain. She glowed with the bright pleasure of Her Domain as the leaves of the blossoms crawled up her body like vines, all while her limbs trembled uncontrollably from the constant intrusions of the sharp, jagged edges of the black glass underbrush._

_There was no choice but to continue walking. When she stopped for too long, the maggots squirmed from the ground to come eat her vulnerable, exposed flesh, and their gluttonous little teeth scared her more than anything. She’d rather endure the pain than to feel them writhing in her wounds, consuming her bit by bit. Her shoulders shook violently at the thought._

_As she pressed ever forward, aimless in her procession, the golden vines climbed further and further up her body, invading the spaces that she dreaded them to go. They clung and curled between her thighs, around her breasts, up her neck, and their choking grasp slowed down her movement. Elain fought to break their hold on her, pulling and thrashing at the intrusive temptations, until their fibrous shafts snapped and broke in her hands. The pieces of the vines disintegrated into oily blackness, melting onto her skin like hot, sticky tar._

_She screamed as the tar scorched her skin, making it bubble and blister. Tears soaked her face, and she had no choice but collapse to her knees. As soon as she did, the fragments of broken black grass dug into the skin there, making her bleed even more, and creating the golden, blossoming vines anew. She attempted to rip the vines off herself again as they nudged their way between her tightly-clenched thighs, inching towards the parts of her that throbbed in need for some release. But Elain learned long ago the cost of allowing the pleasure to come her._

_The Black Forest consumed and consumed, whittled her down to the bone, and for every measure that was given, Elain knew that it would be taken away tenfold. She did not forget the images of the Revas she conjured in her dreams being ripped apart for giving her what she wanted. The vines still sought out her warm wetness, as if it were the sun, but she would not allow it. Not again._

_Clenching her teeth, she grabbed onto the vines again with her blistered hands, and ripped them away with a cry of agony. The tar the vines turned into dripped down her arms now, searing away her skin, making her vision blur in the pain. She wanted nothing more but to lay down on the ground and let it be an end, but she also knew it was not possible here. The Mother of Hares would not allow it._

_Elain pressed through the pain and pushed herself back off the ground, forcing herself to move forward. Her limbs were as heavy as stones, and her body fought against her every move, but she was determined to not succumb to the will of this Forest. If she could only hold out a little longer…_

_The Black Forest did not give her the choice. It shifted again, moving faster than an arrow shot from a bow, the trees becoming a blur, the gold dust kicked up in great glittering clouds, and a deep thrum of sound echoing across the dark spaces between the facade of the forest. Her legs were already shaky and the sudden shift made her fall to the ground as hard as a rock. The sharpness of pain rose up to meet her though, and even as the Black Forest turned into a place between places, she could not escape the torment it provided._

_The shifting of reality stopped abruptly, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving her gasping. She was no longer surrounded by trees on a lighted pathway, but rather, her body had been unceremoniously left next to the bank of the stream that always ran warm, like blood, steaming and fresh against the cool forest floor. Her feet bobbed in the gentle currents of the stream, and for a moment, she contemplated letting her body fall into the dark waters. It was a trap, she knew, but a tempting one. It was so very warm and soothing and this place was as cold as death. She wanted to wash herself of it._

_Letting go of what little discipline she had, she allowed herself to roll into the stream with a heavy splash. She held her head under the water there, and opened her eyes to see underneath the abysmal surface. There were no fish, no tangle of plants, no heavy stones that had been eroded over. The water was black, the streambed was black, and all she could feel with her toes was sand. The sand was smoother, but not entirely, much like a tongue. It was fitting then that it felt like the stream was a mouth ready to swallow her whole._

_Elain breached the surface again, gasping for air, but no longer in excruciating pain. It was a welcome relief, though she knew there would be a price for the little comfort it provided. There was always a price._

_She floated on the stream lazily, watching the unchanging void that hung above her. It was useless to call it a sky; there were no stars, no clouds, nothing that indicated it being anything but a gaping maw, eager to eat. Elain had learned over the years that was all this Forest was. An open mouth, waiting to feast on the poor souls that found their way inside._

_The indolent trip the stream took her on ended when her legs bumped into something solid. And warm. Unbearably warm. It wasn’t the sticky, scorching heat of the vines turned to tar, but rather, an source that emanated heat naturally._

_She was afraid to look up at the cause. Afraid because she already knew, and because it had been so long since she had to face The Lady in Her Domain. Once again, there was no choice. Just like the Black Forest, the Goddess exerts Her Dominion through Force. And as the soothing water of the stream began to fill itself with the segmented bodies of the maggots, Elain knew that Blood and Force would always assert Itself._

_The frenzying bodies of the worms swarmed her own, filling every space, every crevice, just as the water would. They slipped inside the battered body, deep in her wounds, and began to gnaw at her from the inside out. Her skin bubbled and ruptured as they ate her from underneath, and when she opened her mouth to scream, only silence came out. She was paralyzed, unable to move, and could only lay back as consumptive Death overtook her._

_“You’re older, Maiden, but none the wiser,” she heard the Mother of Hares speak from above her, beyond her, all around her. As always, her voice was a chorus of a thousand ancient voices, speaking unison, rumbling the very foundation of this world, “You have sunken as far as a corpse into the Earth. Such a disappointment.”_

_Elain could not move, could not turn her head to see the originator of the words, but She would make Herself known. Leaning down slowly, the red glow of Her dragon’s teeth climbed into her vision. It was familiar and terrifying; the sharp, yet conical shapes protruding from the split open mouth, the oily blackness dripping down between the spaces of those teeth. She smiled at Elain, though it was not friendly. It was a huntress who had captured her prey._

_“Once again, you think to hide from Me. To shroud yourself from My Eyes. But I see all, Maiden,” the inky bitumen fell onto her body, turning into more of the writhing maggots, their teeth biting anew. The Goddess slinked closer and closer to her, a looming giant, bent over and hunched, but imposing all the more for it. She did not carry Her Golden Spear, but She still bathed in It’s Light. Gold and Red, decadence and blood._

_Her face was clear now, and Elain viewed it through tear-soaked eyes. The mouth was the same, it’s demented grin still haunting her, but things had changed in the years she had not seen Her. Her clefted chin no longer held it’s indent. And her eyes --though still the glassy black-- were smaller, less tilted. The jaw was no longer as squared, and her cheeks were more full. The Goddess had changed, but it wasn’t until she saw her nose did Elain fully understand the extent. No longer straight and wide, her nose sat crookedly on her new face, the tip grown and the nostrils narrowed._

_Elain realized she looked upon the face of her Goddess, and her own reflection stared back._

_The panic that set in over her was unlike any she had felt before. She couldn’t move, she was being eaten alive by these damnable worms, and she looked at the face of a god, and saw herself. Her heart bruised itself on her ribcage as it beat against it, and though she tried to breath, her lungs remained empty. There was nowhere she could run, nowhere she could hide. And even the option to do so had been taken. All she could do was watch. Watch in the abject horror as her body decomposed before her eyes._

_“I see you, Elain. I have always seen you,” the bitumen fell in the cavity now forming in her abdomen, her insides exposed, ripe for the feast, “Play your games for now. I will collect what’s mine in due time.”_

_The Mother of Hares hovered over her face, and She was so much larger than Elain, so much more powerful. Elain could feel it. It was as real and tangible as any embrace, as suffocating as hands on her throat. She drew closer and closer, until Elain could smell Her breath; decay and burnt flesh, and the bile spilled up from her gut uncontrollably._

_The Goddess paused an inch from her face, Her inky magic spilling into Elain’s mouth, creating more maggots there as well. They ate her teeth and tongue, leaving her in shock, completely lost to the horror. Elain could not even pray for a swift Death._

_But by Her Grace, with a gentle press of Her rotting lips against her forehead, She gave the Maiden Life instead._

Elain woke to darkness. Utter blackness, and though she tried to breathe and center herself, her body would not obey. She was paralyzed still, unable to move, her legs and arms as rigid as wood. The situation was made worse by the writhing movement in her abdomen, pressing against her to open her up from the inside. 

She began to panic, gasping for air that wouldn’t come and thrashing on the inside, though her body could not cooperate. It was too much, she had to escape, she had to get out, she had to breathe, to breathe, to breathe, to move, to get away from the blackness, from the teeth and the worms and her own face…

“El! Elain!” 

Strong arms gripped her and she choked out cries at her name, afraid of who knew her, who was watching her. Her heart raced faster than she could keep up, as if it were culminating to some transcendent point; a point in which it would leave her body and leave her dead. 

“ELAIN!”

The voice was loud, but very concerned, and the fingers dug into her, until at last, she opened her eyes. 

It wasn’t as dark as she imagined. There was a orange glow from embers in a hearth --her hearth-- and the familiar hangings depicting hares were visible on the walls of her yurt. She knew this place. This was her place. Her breath started to return to her, and she took deep gulps of the air, cool and fresh, and let it fill her lungs. She couldn’t stop the whimpers from escaping, her voice rattling in the panic that had set over her, but it was a relief to finally let the sounds come out.

It was a few moments before Elain could move her body and realized where exactly she was. The walls of her yurt were real, the stars shining through her air vent were real, the soft fur coverings on her cot were real. She was real. The nightmare was over, and she was back where she belonged. 

“What was that?”

She realized it had been Revas speaking to her, and his worried face stared at her now expectantly. 

“A bad dream,” she replied breathlessly. It would be no use even trying to explain. She had already broken her oaths. Revealing the source of the dreams was a line she was not willing to cross. 

“I’ve never seen a nightmare like that,” he was still alarmed, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. An old trick hunters used to ground themselves after battle dreams, “What was it about?”

“I...I don’t know,” she lied. This was not a burden she’d set on him, “But it’s over now. I’m fine.”

He looked on her incredulously, completely aware that she was not, but after all their years spent together, he knew better than to pry. 

“Think you can go back to sleep?” he asked her as he laid himself back down on the cot, patting the empty space next to him. 

Elain knew she wouldn’t be able to but would try anyways. She nestled herself next to him, and he wrapped his arms around her, though they no longer fit all the way. The pressing on her abdomen hadn’t stopped either, but that wasn’t a phantom leftover from the nightmare. It was the child.

“I can feel it moving,” Revas mumbled into her neck as his hand touched her swollen stomach that was the source of most of her discomfort and annoyance this last month or so. She wanted this hellish pregnancy to be over with, but still had to endure another six weeks of this nonsense. 

“It never stops moving,” she muttered under her breath, “Not even born yet and already it’s disrupting my sleep.”

“Shhh,” he whispered while rubbing her back gently, “Get some rest.”

Her head sunk into her pillow, but she did not close her eyes. She did not want to see the dark again. Shortly after, she heard Revas’ breathing grow even as he fell back into slumber, but there would be no rest for her. Elain stared into the dying embers of her hearth, hoping with all her soul that dawn would come before the light went out. 

\---

“The hunters are overworked and undertrained right now,” Elain stated to the gathered members of her weekly status meetings. Warlord Threlen, the Keeper, The Hand of Vengeance, and Old Bida all looked back at her with varying expressions, but what mattered is that they still listened, “Minanter was months ago, but the people who died there don’t magically get replaced in that amount of time. We need our Diceni ‘guests’ to start contributing more.”

“When our hunters contributed more, their kills went to waste since you don’t have hearthworkers who can dress them properly,” Aneth’ail reminded her sternly.

They had all gathered in Bida’s pavilion to discuss the state of the hunters for both clans and to resolve the issues with the overburdened Lavellan ones. It was not going as smoothly as she had hoped.

“Lavellan’s hunters have always dressed their own kills. I don’t see what is so hard to understand about that,” she shot back tensely, “Any one of them can go from tracking their prey to cooking it with ease. Since your hunters cannot seemed to do the same, it’s putting excessive strain on us.”

“Elain, they aren’t hunters like Lavellan are hunters. These troops are fully trained soldiers. You know that. They’re used to killing people, not deer,” he argued with her, “They’ve adapted to act as hunters here, but it’s not a perfect transition. You cannot be picky about whom you beg for assistance from.”

He was making her blood boil with his insistence on defending Paeris’ choice of pushing for the Diceni hunters to act more like shemlen soldiers. They had been utterly useless here. Unless they were on the open plains and the steppes, they weren’t even decent hunters. She had to authorize search parties far too many times for wandering Diceni who waded too far into the forests of the valley. 

“That argument only works when you actually offer assistance,” she said bitterly, “So far all your people have done is pull us down, like a weight around our necks.”

“Da’len, please,” Deshanna tried to smooth over the tension between the two scions, “We are all trying our best to accommodate each other and this bickering is driving a space between us. Let’s at least attempt to be understanding so that the hunters don’t start turning on each other.”

“It’s too late for that,” Warlord Threlen commented, “Rumors and gossip have already taken hold. Now it must play its course.”

“Agreed,” Old Bida chimed in, “There is nothing that can be done in any case, and all this fighting is tiring. I have not lived this long to spend these last years listening to my successors snap at each other like wild dogs.”

“Of course, Hahren,” Aneth’ail responded solemnly, “Ir abelas. I did not mean to distress you.”

Elain huffed her annoyance at his transparent pandering and wrapped her cloak around herself even tighter. The weather was still very cool for the time of year, and she knew that the clan had lingered in Autini for too long. By now, they should be moving towards the plains up north to prepare for their summer hunts, but with the Diceni here and the uncertainty of what was going on in Wycome after the Minanter Stand, the Council chose caution over anything else. It was driving her stir crazy, and more than a little of it contributed to her irritation at the The Hand of Vengeance. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Llyn scrambled into Bida’s pavilion in a rush of noise as his bow clanked against the steel on his belt, he and sat down next to her, panting profusely with sweat dripping off his forehead, “Got an interesting report I needed to verify. Think you need to hear it.”

“What was your excuse for being late last time then?” she asked him spitefully. Elain had to push to allow him into the status reports, and she was annoyed he never deemed it necessary to arrive in a timely fashion.

“Just let him spit it out,” Bida commanded her impatiently. She creased her brow, but let him continue. 

Llyn rolled his shoulders and sighed, “Scouts spotted. The Ethinan didn’t get close because they’re skirting the boundaries of our hunting grounds, but they’re definitely looking at us.”

“What kind of scouts?” Aneth’ail asked. Elain clenched her jaw. She already knew in her gut what kind they were. Humans never took defeat gracefully.

“Looks like troops from Wycome. They weren’t wearing the guard’s colors, but there was the oyster insignia plastered on the saddlebags of their mounts. There weren’t many of them, and they moved on damned quick. I’d say they were preliminary scouts.” 

The letters that she received from Sarrion recently popped up in her mind clearly. _Unrest on Poppy Avenue, the Duke dealing with the ‘knife-ear menace’, fear in the alienage..._ The picture he painted was bleak, and she knew it would only be a matter of time before they’d have to face backlash from the city. They had stayed in Autini far too long. Now, they were most likely trapped. 

“Did they leave a campsite?” Threlen asked. Llyn nodded.

“Yeah. Mostly in tact. I’m having my people look at it.”

Threlen rose from the floor, “I’ll accompany them.”

Aneth’ail followed suit, “So will I. If this is a retaliation or if this Captain Donovan is coming to finish the job, I will have to be involved. Elgar’nan’s swift Hand will mete out justice to those who harmed our kin.”

Not to be outdone in matters of spiritual action, Elain nudged Llyn next to her, and he gave a sigh of exasperation before holding out his arm for her. She grabbed on and had him help her stand as gracefully as she could muster, which was, lamentably, far less than she would like. The child seemed to be sitting right on the base of her spine, causing her sharp pains every time she had to move around. It was growing tiresome, and making her resentful. She couldn’t even count on her own body anymore; the tool she had honed and sculpted for years was working against her along with everything else. 

“I’ll go with as well. If Lokka is behind this again, there will be no choice but to invoke a Dire Hunt. The hunters won’t rest until every last drop of his blood is drained for all of ours that he spilled.”

“Elain, their camp is on the outskirts of our boundaries,” Llyn said quietly to her. She let go of his arm roughly.

“And?”

“And you’re really in no condition to make the trip. There’s deep mud from the thaw and rapids of water that even knocked Twig off his feet,” he explained, and when she scowled at his insinuations, his face paled, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, okay? The Ethinan can handle this. And I’m sure the Warlord will give you a full report.”

He looked towards Threlen nervously, and the aging Warlord nodded, “See? We can handle it.”

She felt her entire face redden with anger, her cheeks burning hot, her mouth frowning deeply. If she wasn’t trying to court Lavellan’s hunters to her side so actively, she would strip Llyn of his rank and have him exiled to an Orlesian clan for his insubordination. She couldn’t afford to try it now though, so she sucked in her breath and pursed her lips.

“Fine, but I want the report from you personally. And immediately,” she ordered him brusquely, “The minute you return, in fact. Dismissed.”

Llyn leaned his head forward in acknowledgment and deference, then led the Warlord and the Hand out of Bida’s pavilion. When they were gone, she loosened the heavy canvas drapes of the entrance and closed them shut with a heavily tasseled rope. Satisfied that they wouldn’t be interrupted, she turned back towards Deshanna and Bida and began to pace.

“They are shutting me out of my duties. The Ethinan answer to me and our Warlord, and no one else,” she ranted hotly, “Llyn is getting too bold now that he’s allowed to attend Council meetings and status reports. I don’t know why Den and Revas insisted I fight to include him, but I can see now it was a mistake.”

“It was an act of goodwill towards the hunters,” Old Bida reminded her gruffly, “Besides, they can’t help it if you have to waddle to get anywhere.”

“This is serious,” Elain complained, “I am pregnant, not dead. I should be out there!”

“You’re whining to the wrong person, girl. I don’t have a measure of sympathy for you,” Bida responded with a wave of her hand, “You did this all to yourself and far too many people are working to help you as it is. Be thankful you still have the authority entrusted to you.”

Elain sat back down on her cushioned spot on the floor, and folded her arms over her chest in a pout. She detested being wrong, even more so when the old Maiden was the one who informed her how wrong she was. 

“I still don’t like being shut out. It leaves me wary. We cannot trust Threlen and Aneth’ail to have the clan’s best interests at heart.”

“Your best interests, you mean,” Deshanna sighed, “But not everything is about you. The rest of us must maintain some kind of cordial dealings with the Diceni. They are the High Clan of the Free Marches, after all.”

“Hmph,” Elain grunted, her mood soured beyond saving now. 

Deshanna looked between the Maidens, then towards the now closed entrance of the pavilion. She got up and took a closer look at the drapes, and tugged on the tasseled rope to ensure they were tight. Once she was satisfied, she returned to her seat, and reached into the leather sack she wore on her belt. It was usually full of her sacred implements; an ironbark statuette of Andruil, elfroot, a hare’s foot, and various other trinkets needed for daily prayers. However, to Elain’s surprise, she pulled out a piece of paper, rolled up but a wax seal broken.

“I received word from the steppes,” she began quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, “Paeris will be departing with his entourage within the week. He will be visiting the Silures shortly, and then coming directly here to deal with our _‘issue’._ ”

“How long?” Bida asked. Elain shifted in her chair, uncomfortable from the child moving and uncomfortable at the day of her reckoning fast approaching.

“About a month. I think he wants to arrive before the birth,” Deshanna suggested. 

“It makes sense; he arrives in time to see his first niece or nephew born, makes a show of adoring the child, then quietly exiles the boy and has Elain’s title revoked so she can focus on her baby,” Old Bida theorized, “This is also an opportune time for Vhannas to strike. Is your Shadow well-protected?”

“I don’t want to hear anymore!” Deshanna rose from her seat suddenly, her hands in the air, “I cannot believe our Craftmaster would do something so heinous. It’s treasonous to assume he would.”

“He won’t,” Elain assured the Keeper, but her eyes met Bida’s. They both knew it was a lie. 

The Keeper shrugged her shoulders dramatically and made her way towards the entrance again, this time intent on leaving. 

“I only told you so you could prepare yourself, Da’len,” she explained to her before exiting, “I don’t want to be part of any schemes or plotting. This is your responsibility to bear. Perhaps you should face it.”

Elain watched her leave with her eyes narrowed and her anger rising once again. It was simple to tell someone to face their problems when they had no problems beyond mundane issues to face. 

“Is he safe?” Old Bida asked her again once Deshanna was completely out of earshot. Elain released a heavy breath and reclined on the soft cushions.

“I don’t know. He tells me he can protect himself, but I think he doesn’t take my father seriously as a threat,” she confessed, “Vhannas seems to have washed his hands of me completely though. I can’t even tell if he cares anymore.”

“Hmm,” she didn’t seem convinced.

“Paeris is the larger threat. Along with whatever is happening in Wycome. I just have to trust Revas can defend himself if Vhannas is plotting.”

“I hope your trust isn’t misplaced,” was all Bida could say.

Elain hoped so as well, but she had a difficult time focusing on Vhannas when Paeris was finally arriving. He had hem and hawed since he heard the news of her oathbreaking, putting off the Keeper’s requests for an immediate decision on her fate. There was some game he was playing, some scheme he was laying out, but she hadn’t quite deciphered it. 

As she and Bida chatted idly about the state of things, Elain rested her hands on her stomach to try to calm her child’s erratic kicking and motion. The baby moved forcefully, making her insides clench, and she wondered if Paeris actually had timed his arrival with her child’s impending birth. The labor would weaken her, the weeks of feeding and sleep deprivation after would as well, and perhaps her brother would use it to his advantage --though she didn’t see how. There was no way of knowing until he made his entrance.

As she wasted away an afternoon in the comfort of her mentor’s yurt, she found herself recalling Paeris from their youth; the serious, studious young man who carried her home from the lake after taking her swimming. The First who would always listen to her and defend her, even when she didn’t deserve it. The brother and stroked her hair and told her it would be alright when nothing seemed to go as planned. She thought fondly on those times, when he protected her and she loved him fiercely for it. Elain wondered if any part of the brother she remembered remained, if any of him still felt the same about his old life, but she suddenly realized none of the girl that she was had lingered. There were no more carefree laughs, no more teasing jokes, no more need for his open shoulder.

Even if the old Paeris was still there, the old Elain had long since vanished under the Mantle. 


	24. Useless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een discusses the Dalish with Vivienne and makes a realization; the situation in Wycome turns tragic

“And here we have the gallery, where Madame de Fer displays all her works,” the steward of Vivienne’s estate pointed out stunning pieces of art in a large hallway. Sar’een and her entourage were staying in Val Royeaux at the sprawling mansion in the few weeks leading up to the peace talks at the Winter Palace. The estate was unlike any she had ever seen, and Vivienne’s touch was apparent everywhere.

The current hall Sar’een and her small touring group stood in seemed filled to the brim in luxury; velvet heraldry of the Circle of Mag hanging on the elaborately wallpapered walls, oil paintings of beautiful architecture, and marble statues inlayed with gold and semi-precious stones depicting the life of Andraste. The statuary was flanked by mahogany tables carved into smooth curves and lion’s feet, with blossoming flowers placed on each one. The deep blue petals seemed to match the delicately placed lapis lazuli stones set into the marble of Andraste’s eyes. Their clarity was piercing, and it filled Sar’een with a sense of awe and wonder at how realistic it looked.

“Her collection is impressive,” she muttered to herself, but it must have been loud enough for her companions in the tour to hear.

“It is,” Solas commented as he eyed a particularly stunning portrait of a half-dressed woman laying in a field of daisies, “For all her close-mindedness when it comes to the very nature of something as natural as magic, she certainly has amassed quite the variety of work.”

“What does magic have to do with art?” Sar’een inquired, still staring reverently at the beautiful statue of the Prophetess of the Maker.

“Yes, Solas,” Dorian cut in the conversation, his hand resting on his chin as he looked at the same statue that had Sar’een so entranced, “Please do educate us on what art and Vivienne’s draconian outlook of magic have in common. I am ever so curious.”

“Since you insist,” Solas responded tersely, “In the times of my people, there was no difference between the two. Magic was as intrinsic to art as it was to anything else. A spell cast correctly could fill one hundred of these halls with vibrancy and life as well as sorrow and pain, all on the artists’ whims. Frescoes that spanned entire cities, and cities that floated on the sculptures that took a thousand years to form. Magic elevated art to its own plane of suggestion, where even what seemed impossible could be seen and felt as acutely as any lover’s hand.”

Dorian scoffed, “Why did I know the answer would be _‘but art is magic!_ ’, hm?”

“A shame your people didn’t take an appreciation of the beauty of magic when they stole everything else from my people,” Solas snapped back, though his words weren’t heated. He was as collected as always, but sharper, his hands tightly clasped behind his back.

“Ha! I’ve seen the old Elvhen ruins. Tevinter developed its own taste for a reason,” Dorian was baiting him, and Sar’een rolled her eyes and pulled her thoughts from the statue to address their pettiness.

“Stop, please. It was just a question.”

“Ahem,” the steward cleared her voice loudly to interrupt the bickering, “Perhaps we can move on?”

Sar’een nodded politely, “Please.”

They traversed the rest of Vivienne’s estate in awkward silence. The steward continued pointing out all the interesting cathedral ceilings installed by Divine Victoria’s personal architect or the silver-leaf that had been placed in the trim of the banquet room to glitter in the moonlight that shone through the large windows. She couldn’t appreciate it as much as she wanted, nor did she find anything quite as beautiful as the marble statue of Andraste. She reminded her of something, though Sar’een couldn’t quite place it, and it filled her with a quiet sense of fulfillment.

“Were there statues as beautiful as the one of Andraste in Arlathan?” she whispered to Solas as the steward rambled on about the hand-woven Antivan rugs that covered Vivienne’s parlor.

“More beautiful than you could imagine,” Solas whispered back to her, “Some were realistic like Andraste’s statue; every last detail had been carved to perfection. Every eyelash, every pore, every gap between the teeth in the mouths was visible. If you looked long enough, you’d find yourself holding your breath, waiting to see if the statue would inhale one of their own.”

“It sounds so lovely.”

“It was lovely,” Solas’s reply was somewhat melancholy, “A loveliness I have not seen in a very long time.”

She tried to imagine the statues of Arlathan, to see her own face carved in the stone, but the image fell apart. She wasn’t striking enough for it. And stone was so rigid, so unmoving. She would never be able to hold it. Vivienne would be better suited. Or Elain. Their faces would make the marble form to them, work for them, display them with genuine fear and love, while she would just get lost in the stone. A painting would fit her better. Simple brushstrokes, muted colors...maybe it would seem unassuming at first, but once the viewer stepped back and looked at the entire picture, they would see the understated beauty inside of it.

Sar’een liked that idea.

When at last the tour of the estate ended, the steward led the little group back to Vivienne’s tea room where the First Enchanter waited patiently at a table set with an array of china that seemed handpainted, and steaming vessels of food sitting among them. The smell of the meal made her stomach grumble, and she pulled out one of the high-back chairs that were embroidered with silk, and joined Vivienne at the table.

“I hope you enjoyed the tour,” Vivienne said diplomatically to Dorian and Solas, “But I have important matters to discuss with the Inquisitor that are of a...personal nature. There is more food in the dining room, along with the rest of our companions. Mademoiselle Julienne will lead you there.”

“Sent to the serving hall with all of the rest of the undesirables,” Dorian complained as the Steward ushered the two out of the room, “And to think I was almost feeling at home.”

The heavy oak doors shut behind them, and Sar’een smiled at the First Enchanter from across the table, “So, what’s on the menu?”

Vivienne returned the smile and lifted the lid on the serving dish. Underneath was a pile of broiled kidneys, garnished with some leafy herb, and the juice they were cooked in pooling at the bottom. It was disgusting.

“Well...this is…” she started, unsure what to say.

“Authentic Dalish cuisine. I asked my chef to track down a recipe so you would feel more at home,” Vivienne picked up her teacup and took a sip, “I was told that Clan Aethelin uses this exact same method for preparation.”

Sar’een picked up a fork and poked at the bloated little organs, “You’re not wrong.”

She lifted her eyebrow in response, “Yet, it seems like it wasn’t a wise dish to choose, if the unpleasant grimace on your face it anything to go by.”

Setting the fork back down, Sar’een just stared at the kidneys, unable to turn her eyes away from something so familiar but not, “I’m sorry. I appreciate the effort, but this isn’t how my clan eats.”

“No?”

“No,” she continued, “The clans that wander Orlais are more impoverished than other clans. There’s little food, the noble hunters scatter their game, and their herds always seem to be sick. They eat boiled organs because they have no other choice. Clans like mine have more resources, so this…” she pointed to the greyish brown pile, “This is the stuff we feed to our hounds.”

“Interesting,” Vivienne mused as she looked on the platter of kidneys, “And do clans such as yours aid the impoverished ones in Orlais?”

Sar’een shuffled her feet nervously under the table. She did not like this line of questioning, but she did not want to lie either, “Not really? The clans of Orlais have a bad reputation. Very few clans in the north like to get involved with them.”

Vivienne set her teacup down gently on its saucer and lifted the lid off another serving platter on the table. On this one, a delicate filet of white fish swimming on top of the clearest broth she had ever seen. She lifted another lid, and another mouth watering dish; _haricots verts_ smothered in herb butter.This time, Sar’een immediately ladled the soup into a bowl and filled her plate with the beans.

“I am sorry the kidneys were not up to standard,” she said with genuine regret, “Had I known the Dalish were so like the Chantry, I would’ve been more mindful.”

Sar’een looked up from the meal that was tempting her with it’s delicious aroma, “We’re like the Chantry?” Unable to wait for an answer, she scooped some of the broth into her mouth, and closed her eyes at the utter perfection of the light yet flavorful dish.

“In a way,” she responded, “The Chantry has been known to turn a blind eye to those who are in need of them most. The Circle of Magi are just one instance of this, though a large one. Divine Justinia was trying to change things, to calm the storm that was brewing, but it was too little, too late.”

She quickly chewed the beans she had shoved in her mouth and went to swallow, “We don’t turn a blind eye! We try to...we help when--”

It dawned on Sar’een that Vivienne might be right. How many times had Paeris threatened to send her off to an Orlesian clan in jest when she had not finished her work? How many rumors arose when Loremaster Kellen’s daughter, Nesta, was sent to an Orlesian Clan? How many calls trade route requests from the Dales did the Council ignore when it crossed their agenda? The clans of Orlais were far away and isolated from the rest, too proud to leave the Dales and wander where they could survive. And the clans of the North looked down on them for that.

It started to sit heavily in her stomach. The food that she was so ready to devour only a moment ago looked like the least appetizing thing in the world.

“There’s no shame in survival, my dear,” Vivienne assured her, “I’m sure that your people value it above everything else.”

“We do,” she said quietly.

“And unfortunately, not everyone can survive. You must save as many as you can in the moment.”

“I suppose,” was all she could answer.

“It’s a hard truth the accept, and even harder to swallow,” Vivienne explained, “But you are not helpless in this, Inquisitor. The Winter Palace looms, and your presence could mean many things for the future of Orlais.”

“It doesn’t really help the elves though, does it?” she asked, “My people aren’t going to rejoice over me stopping the assassination of an Empress that they don’t even know. And the city elves certainly won’t celebrate it after she burned Halamshiral.”

“Then give them reason to rejoice. A clever play in The Game can change the entire political landscape. It’s happened many times before; including when Halanshiral was purged.”

Sar’een chewed on her lip, contemplating how she could possibly help the Empress and the elves at the same time, “How do I do that?”

“With some tenacity, subtlety, and guidance from a player who knows all the rules and how to bend them,” Vivienne responded casually.

“I won’t have to burn anything, will I?” her gaze fell back on the boiled kidneys, sitting untouched on the pristine platter.

 _‘Do you think they’ll want to eat the dog food while they’re here?’_ a question she had asked her own friends in jest when two members of Clan Virnehn had stayed with her clan on a trip up north.

“Of course not, my dear,” Vivienne assured her, “Halamshiral was a barbaric decision on Celene’s part. A good leader does not show strength by attacking the most vulnerable, in my opinion.”

“Then she isn’t a very good leader.”

Vivienne was quiet for a moment, picking up her tea and taking another sip, her perfectly plucked brows furrowed ever so slightly while the thought on Sar’een’s statement. When she at last set her cup down again, her mouth had turned down into a frown.

“In some respects, she is not. Empress Celene is passionate about art and culture above military prowess. She used The Game to elevate elves in some ways that other nobles find suspect. And she plays favoritism far more than she likes to believe,” Vivienne described the Empress to her, “These are all weaknesses of hers that could easily turn into strengths if the right words, the right actions, and the right rumors were applied. Until Gaspard grew tired of playing in her shadow, Celene has been a pragmatic but prosperous ruler of Orlais. We should keep that in mind before throwing any weight behind a man who wants to start another war with Ferelden.”

“So I should just forget she purged the elves to save face?” Sar’een felt herself becoming panicked. How could she justify supporting this Empress, no matter what good she has done?

“Never forget, darling,” Vivienne told her sharply, “The moment you forget is the moment you leave your door open for anyone to take advantage. Put on a serene face and smile, but never forget.”

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to,” she responded.

“Good,” Vivienne nodded, “I am merely giving you one opinion on the situation so you can make an educated decision. Celene is flawed, as any leader is, but she has kept the empire stable for over a decade. However, not everything is in her hands. The responsibility is being handed off, and you may cup that power in your own palms if you only reach for it. You can do more for your people than any empress.”

Sar’een looked down at her hands, calloused and red from weeks in the field, and she turned them over and back again as she reflected on Vivienne’s words. Power was not what she had ever coveted or wanted; that was for people like Paeris. She had only wanted a little more excitement, a little more adventure that would make for a good story. Now, there was no time for stories. Only for action.

She emptied her plate into the gilded bowl on the serving cart next to the table, and placed it back on the tabletop. Grabbing her fork, she reached to the platter holding the steaming offal and placed some on the waiting plate. With a sense of purpose growing inside her heart, she picked up her knife and sliced into the organs, cutting a thin piece, then placed it into her mouth. It was not as vibrant and delicious as the Orlesian cuisine, but it was honest.

Vivienne smiled brightly at her before doing the same. She held her own thin slice of the kidney in the air in toast.

“To doing more for the people than an Empress would.”

Sar’een pressed her own fork to the First Enchanter’s with a _cling_ , and they ate the rest of their meal in pensive silence, each of them reflecting on all that could be done to change the world for those that had been trampled over by it.

\---

“I’m telling you, it’s completely legit. Makes you see the Maker when you drink it,” the shady merchant tried to reassure Sarrion of his product. He swished the small, bright red crystals in the vial, but something about it made his nose twitch.

They sat in a corner of The Whale’s Eye bar on Carnation Street --the darkest alley in the Wycome alienage. The scent of the sea and rotting fish that always permeated the alienage streets was masked by the smoke of hand-rolled cigars and cheap whiskey procured by the Thieves Guild, the owners of this ramshackle hole-in-the-wall. Sarrion usually didn’t like elf-only bars, but it was too dangerous to go into the human parts of the city anymore. Everyone had gotten really paranoid lately.

“I don’t know, Fork. This doesn’t look like Rin’s usual stuff,” he side-eyed the old elf holding up the rocks. He stared at it intensely, watching as the red light the crystals seemed to emanant lit that rank little corner in the room. He could almost hear them, and it made him shudder.

“It _isn’t_ Rin’s usual stuff. This is coming straight from Poppy Avenue!” Fork exclaimed, shaking the rocks harder, until Sarrion though the glass might break, “The same stuff the noble twats up there are snorting for kicks. Every party of anyone who’s anyone has ‘em!”

“Answers ‘no,” Sarrion pushed the man’s arm away. He wanted nothing to do with….whatever that was. Made his teeth hurt. Made his head hurt too. He grabbed his mug of shitty, watered down beer and took a drink.

“Fine. Ol’ Fork was giving you first pick, but you weren’t havin’ it. Just remember when this shit is selling for quadruple the price a month from now,” Fork pushed off the table as he stood up, nearly knocking his mug over.

“Ol’ Fork is giving me bullshit. Bring me the stuff from Rin or don’t bring me anything,” he muttered into his mug before taking another gulp.

“Yeah, yeah,” the old elf waved him off before hobbling over to his next mark. Sarrion watched him go with boredom, and sat back against the grease-stained wall behind him. This whole shithole of a city made him feel dirty, and if he knew how to keep his big mouth shut, he’d be in Kirkwall or Markham instead, where the girls and boys actually gave him the time of day without him having to dig into his coin purse.

He dug in his pocket while coin was on his mind and pulled out the small leather pouch he kept the gold Elain had sent him. Sarrion rattled the bag, and the very distinct lack of noise didn’t bode well for the next week. Ondine kicked him out of the Gilded Oyster, so unless he could come up with some money, he’d be sleeping at the dump hall again. He nearly gagged as the smell of piss and fish from the memory of the first time that flooded his nostrils, and he drained his beer to wash it out of his mouth.

It wouldn’t take much to just cut and run from the city; word from the Dalish traders outside the city walls was that the Maiden was pregnant, and in a whole world of scandal. Her hands were probably full, and she wouldn’t have time to send Revas out to hunt him down. Besides, she probably wanted the father of her kid sticking close by anyways. He smiled to himself at the thought. All those years of that asshole pushing his weight around, scaring off anyone who would question the Maiden, was because she was handling his dick behind the scenes. It’d be a lot funnier if he wasn’t stuck here because of her though.

Even if he wanted to leave, it’d be tough. Wycome guards were getting sick with plague too, so the Duke was having this vicious merc group patrolling the streets. Elves were getting extorted and harassed, and getting out of the city was almost impossible. He was stuck, stuck, stuck here, and he cursed letting himself get in bed with that Inquisition Agent. She definitely wasn’t a good enough lay to justify this.

“Move out of the way!”

A commotion from the front of the bar shook him out of his thoughts, and when he looked up, he saw a group of guild runners slamming the entrance door shut and chaining it up. Two others were pulling something onto the bar itself, knocking a lot of liquor down in the process. What a waste.

“The bastards got Jossa! They didn’t even ask questions! Brought out their axes and went to town!” one of the runners cried, and Sarrion could see they had dragged a body onto the bar. Whoever Jossa was, she wasn’t looking good. He got up from his seat to get a closer look.

What he saw made his stomach lurch.

“Shit,” he muttered as he looked down on the mutilated body of the hahren of the alienage.

He hadn’t recognized her name, but he saw her around that big ol’ tree at the bottom of the hill almost every day. She was older, her hair gray and curling, and now, sticky with blood. He saw bits of bone from her skull jutting out under the wet hair, and her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling of the bar. Dead.

“Oh Andraste,” the bartender, Sal, said, “What happened?” Sarrion had only known the guy for a few weeks, but he seemed decent enough. Never kicked him out for being short on coin, which was a plus.

“She was out past curfew,” one of the runners began while the other cried pitifully, “We told her to stay off the streets. We told her!”

“I know, son, but she didn’t listen,” Sal snapped as he looked on the body, “Now what happened!”

“Those mercs...the ones that Captain Donovan is leading. They caught her out after the curfew and told her they were taking her to lock her up. She panicked and screamed and they just….”

The runner began crying too, big wet sobs that made his face look ugly, “They just chopped her up. Just chopped her up.”

There were other patrons of the bar looking over the body now, and everything had gone quiet but for the wails of the mourning. Sarrion didn’t care much about any alienage elder, but he did care about his own hide. And things were going to get a hell of a lot worse now.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, he heard the shouts and chants coming from outside the bar, near the center of the alienage. The elves were already riled up, ready for a fight. He side stepped the gathered crowd of patrons and looked out the porthole window on the side wall. He saw elves running to and fro, torches in hand, improvised weapons on their waists.

“Shiiit,” he said under his breath. He was fucked. Beyond fucked. There were levels of fucked and this was a place even higher up than that. There was no getting out now. These assholes were going to do something stupid and attack these mercs, and then the Duke was going to have the whole place purged. There were no words to describe how fucked.

“This is bad,” he heard Sal comment behind him, “We’ve gotta get people outta here. The ones not locked in the alienage. Someone’s gotta get out there and down to the dockworkers and the families living on the pier!”

“I ain’t goin’,” one of the patrons said, “Besides, where are we gonna send them? Ain’t no village around here that’ll take in elves.”

“There’s gotta be something! We can’t just let this happen!” one of the guild runners cried out.

“It’s gonna happen no matter what,” Sal argued, “But we can save some of them who ain’t involved. Jossa should’ve kept her nose out of this. Shit!”

Sarrion peered out the window again, this time to see more thieves guild members coming out of their corners and crevices to get in the fight. Ugly didn’t even begin to describe this.

“Sarrion knows where to send ‘em!”

He groaned at Fork opening his big, toothless mouth, and turned to face scared group. They looked on him expectantly, and if he wasn’t afraid of wasting his arrows, he would’ve shot the old man for dragging him in this.

“See! Look at them tattoos! He’s a Dalish. He can get them to the clans!” Fork explained, waving his arms wildly in the air.

“No, I can’t,” he replied angrily, “I’m an exile. They’ll kill me on sight.”

“Great job, Fork,” the runner muttered, “Get us the only Dalish that ever got kicked out. Useless halla shit-eater.”

He didn’t know why, but it made him angry. Even angrier. He hated this city, hated these elves, hated everything about this place, but he wasn’t about to be called useless. He’d heard enough of that in his life.

“I can’t get you there, but I can tell you where to go where the families can be safe and where you can get reinforcements,” he cut in, “If you want to listen to a halla shit-eater, that is.”

“Go ahead, son,” Sal reached under his bar and pulled out a tablecloth and used it to tenderly cover the alienage elder after urging Sarrion to continue.

He shot a look of malice towards the guild runner before yanking a chair behind him with his foot and sitting down.

“Clan Lavellan is the closest clan to here, out in Autini Valley. A couple of days trip if you hurry,” he started, “They’re some of the best warriors in the Free Marches, and they dealt with Captain Donovan a few months back and drove him off. If you can get them to help, you have a chance to save yourselves.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” the runner pressed him. Sarrion looked and saw an untouched glass full of whiskey on the table nearest to him, and reached out and drank it. He was going to need to be a little buzzed to handle this shit. Slamming the glass down, he faced the runner and smiled.

“You’re going to ask the Maiden of the Hunt for help. And for some stupid magical hocus pocus reason, she’s obligated to listen to your request. But trust me, she is not going to refuse.”

“I know about the Maiden,” Sal spoke up, though his eyes were still on the cloth covering the corpse laying on his bar, “She’s helped city elves before. It’s our best option.”

“You should go then Sal,” the runner said, “Get the families and dockworkers out of here. The Guild will push back against the mercs until you can come back with help.”

“I’m not leaving my home,” the bartender responded firmly.

A loud crash and a scream came from the outside, startling the room, causing the hysterical guild runner still sobbing to choke on her spit. Sarrion rolled his eyes.

“You ain’t gotta choice,” the loud runner argued, “You either get us the help, or we’re all as good as gone. There ain’t gonna be a home for you to have!”

The bartender looked down on his hands, then back up at the patrons staring at him wide-eyed and scared. He finally nodded his head.

“Fine,” he relented, “But I’m comin’ back. All of you not in the guild, come with me.” He motioned for the back door to the bar, and several of the patrons moved in front of him and to the outside. Sal reached under his counter again, but this time pulled out a crossbow.

“Good luck, Yemet. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” Sal told the runner over his shoulder as he followed the scared group outside. He slammed the door behind him, and all that was left in the Whale’s Eye was the thieves and the scoundrels.

“You leaving too, shit-eater?” Yemet asked him snidely.

He knew he could, though he didn’t have the money to get far. But something about being called ‘useless’ jostled something inside of him, and Sarrion didn’t like it. An asshole, a piece of shit, even a demon...all names he’s been called before and laughed in the face of. _‘Useless’_ meant nights sleeping in the rain because no one could be bothered to make sure his yurt was water-proof. _‘Useless’_ meant having his training bow taken away and him put in front of a halla instead even though all he wanted was to hunt. _‘Useless’_ meant being laughed at for it all by his supposed kin. _‘Useless’_ was what he was when he was Dalish. And he wasn’t Dalish anymore.

But he wasn't one of these elves either. No matter what he wanted to be, Sarrion still had no stake in this. He wasn't useless, but he wasn't ready to die either. Let the Maiden sort out the mess herself. He'd lit the path for them to her. That was enough.

"Sure am," he replied flippantly as he leaned back in his chair, "Know a way out?"

Yemet frowned, "Yeah, but I'll only tell you on one condition."

"What is it?"

"FIghting's gettin' too rough here, so you have to escort the elves who can't fight."

Sarrion bounced his foot impatiently, "And if I don't feel like it?"

"Then you find your own way out, shit-eater," Yemet's mouth split into a wide smile, "We got a deal?"

He knew his chances of getting out on his own were slim-to-none. Sarrion hadn't been here long enough to know the escapes well enough, and he didn't want to get caught by one of these asshole guards. His choices were limited, and the idea of him being called 'useless' still irked him. Maybe this would help ease that stupid little voice in the back of his head.

"Looks like we got a deal," he replied, standing up from his chair. He stretched his arms over his head lazily and let out a big yawn before continuing, "So how am I getting out of here?"

Yemet looked him over once more, probably not convinced he would keep his word, but just like Sarrion, there wasn't a lot of choices he could make. It was either let him go and possibly save some people, or sit and watch everyone die. He looked like one of those upstanding moral assholes, anyways. There was only one choice he'd make.

"You're going through the Catacombs. Hope you aren't afraid of the dark."


	25. Necessary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a major setback, Elain takes desperate measures to secure her position.

The wet ground from the spring rains made Revas’ boots sink into the mud and leave deep impressions. He was trying not to make tracks, but it was nearly impossible this late in the season. The loud crunching of twigs and branches just beneath the mud gave his position away in addition to the tracks, and he resigned himself to just making the short trek to the edge of the forest by the river without attempting to go unnoticed. If someone wanted to find him, they would only have to look, he supposed. And as of late, someone always seemed to need something from him. 

Revas could hear the fast flowing river over the sound of birds in the treetops above him, but he wasn’t there to admire the scenery. The stress of the Diceni using extra resources combined with their struggle to flush out game from the over-hunted forest was becoming too much for him to handle on his own. The clan needed to move out of the valley and onto the plains, or come up with a more permanent solution to their hunting issues. The Keeper had forbidden expanding their hunting grounds out of fear of these Wycome scouts, and it was driving Revas and the rest of the hunters up a wall. Elain and Den were doing what they could, but both of them were in no condition to be actively in the field. That left the entirety up to him. 

Sneaking out of camp for stress relief wasn’t ideal, but something had to take the edge off. Revas could handle the pressure normally, but the last few months had been nothing but problems mounting on top of another. Not to mention the fact he would have a kid to take care of in a few weeks. Even he had his limits.

When he spotted the figure leaning against a large conifer near where the forest thinned into the riverbanks, he let out a sigh of relief at his reprieve from all this turmoil being near. Llyn was already waiting for him.

“‘Bout time you showed up,” Llyn pulled the wooden pipe and a small tin out of the leather bag he wore around his waist as he approached, “Elain keeping you again?”

Revas grabbed the flint striker from his pocket while he waited for Llyn to fill the pipe with the dried elfroot stems, “No, it was Den this time. He’s pissed about the Diceni hunters again.”

“What else is new?” Llyn said dismissively. He put the mouthpiece of the pipe between his lips, and Revas ground the flint and steel of the striker over the pipe’s bowl. The resulting sparks ignited the dried stems, and Llyn inhaled short puffs to keep the fire going. 

“Some talk going around that the new bloods think Elain should step down,” Revas brought up the latest rumor as his friend exhaled a blueish cloud of smoke into the clean spring air, “That’s she’s too caught up being pregnant to lead.”

Llyn choked out a laugh as he passed the pipe over to him, “Are you kidding? More like the other way around; she’s too busy trying to order everyone around to care that she’s pregnant. Did I tell you about yesterday? She was demanding to see that scout camp with The Hand. I thought she was going to have me strung up when I told her it wasn’t a good idea.”

The sting of the smoke burned his throat as he breathed it in, but when he let it out again, the light-headed euphoria replaced it. Revas felt his body relax, and his mind slowly became clearer.

“Yeah, I heard. She complained to me about it last night,” he handed over the pipe again, “I can’t go one day without hearing you two bitching about each other.”

“I’m trying, Revas,” Llyn said as he lazily chewed on the pipe bit, “But she’s down my neck for everything.”

“You’re the one who wanted to get more recognition for the Ethinan,” he pointed out, “Now you have to deal with the Maiden for it.”

Llyn shook his head, “I don’t know how you dealt with working under her so long. She’s vicious.”

“What can I say?” he shrugged before snatching the pipe back, “I like a challenge.”

“Well you’re going to have your fill of it when that baby comes,” Llyn said gravely as he relaxed against the trunk of the tree, “Don’t you remember when Bran’s little girl was born? He was so excited, but then he realized how much work was involved...”

“Yeah, I remember. He was a mess,” a cloud of the smoke swirled around Revas’ head, and he blew on it gently as the sense of calm serenity washed over him. 

“I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. He died over a year ago, and I still sometimes wait for him in the mornings, thinking he’s going to show up and go spear-fishing with me again like we used to,” Llyn began solemnly, “But then he never does. Virsa’s remarried, his little girl is calling someone else _‘papae’_...nothing left that even shows he lived here. Makes me think that nothing is really set in stone, you know? Nothing is for certain. We could die tomorrow. The Dalish could die tomorrow. Maybe we’re overreaching in trying to keep Elain in charge. Maybe we should see what Paeris has to say first.”

Revas inhaled deeply on the pipe again, filling his lungs to the brim, then holding his breath for a moment. When he finally let the smoke out, he did so with a sigh. 

“We already know what Paeris has to say,” he replied, “He wants us to stop depending on Councils and Scions and tradition and get to living like flat-ears.”

“Yeah, but is there really something wrong with that?” Llyn asked, “I mean, look at Sar’een. She’s gone from some no-name First to being a respected leader to the shemlen. No one is talking down to her or chasing her off their property. She’s got nobles eating out of her hands. All because she didn’t follow the traditions. We could be better than what we are now, or worse. How do we know if we keep people like Elain in charge?”

“Because you aren’t going to be living some high life as a leader to the Marcher shems,” Revas was annoyed with his questioning. He wanted to relax, not discuss political machinations, “Without Elain protecting us, you’re going to end up on a farm, growing grain for the Diceni soldiers, and who the fuck knows what’ll happen to me. I’ve got a kid to think about; I can’t afford to just let Paeris have his say.”

“Alright, alright,” Llyn held up his hands in surrender, “Could you at least talk to Elain though? Get her to...I don’t know...be more patient with me? She’s making me think I’d rather work on a farm.”

Revas bounced the back of his head on the tree in frustration, “For fuck’s sake....see, this is why I don’t like smoking with you. You get so whiny--”

It was a soft. A whisper of a noise under the heavy sounds of the rapids in the MInanter. Quieter than a bird or even a mouse, but he heard it. He raised a finger in the air, signaling Llyn to it, and his friend’s eyes were already narrowed in the direction of the disturbance. The pipe and their conversation was abandoned, and Revas pulled out his bow and an arrow from the quiver on his waist. 

The sound came from a grouping of fallen trees, old and rotted, but enough to obscure. Their instincts kicked in, and they immediately split up --Revas heading straight for the noise while Llyn melted back into the woods to flank whatever they’d find. This might be a chance for them to catch the Wycome scouts that had edged in on their territory. If it was them. He didn’t want to think the Ethinan were so undertrained now that even humans could sneak up on them this close to camp.

He strode across the distance between him and the pile of wood debris, as silent as possible, but the mud made it difficult. Whatever the origin of the sound, it seemed to be staying in place. The light of midday left no obscuring shadows, and he had not seen anything trying to escape from the spot. Revas closed in on it, aware of Llyn doing the same from the right, and as he approached, he lunged over the large pile of wood to get the jump on whatever was on the other side. 

A body, battered and exhausted, but still breathing, with wide eyes staring up at his bow aimed directly in her face. 

“Well well well. Look who it is. How about a hand, tough guy?”

\---

Elain was uncomfortable. And irritated. And angry. She was resting on her cot after a long morning of ritual and meetings, the cool spring breeze putting a chill in the air, but it wasn’t stopping her from feeling unbearably hot. No matter what she seemed to do would stop the heat either. Nothing about her condition made sense to her, and she laid on the soft pillows and blankets with the back of her hand resting on her forehead, bemoaning her pitiful existence.

“Any more contractions?” Sohta asked her as she rubbed oil into Elain’s aching feet and legs. Her hands were like magic, relieving all the pressure that continued to build in every part of her body. 

“Constantly,” she admitted, “Nothing regular though. I think this child is just messing with me at this point.”

Sohta’s heel of her hand ran up Elain’s shin, releasing the tightness that had plaguing her for a week, “Did you try my suggestions to help it along?”

“Yes.”

“Adding Sylaise Blessing to your food? Taking walks?” Sohta pressed her.

“Yes and yes. The food gave made me sick and the walks just made me tired,” she complained. 

“And what about the sex?”

Elain shot up from her reclining position on the cot, “Mamae, stop!”

Sohta shrugged and wiped her hands on her apron, “What? That’s how I finally got Revas out of me. He was past due and nothing worked. As soon as I kept Heliwr in my bed all day, he practically shot out.”

“Oh Creators have mercy,” she muttered as she buried her head in her hands. She did not want to hear this. 

“You wanted my advice, and I gave it to you. Did you listen or not?” Sohta got up from the cot and stood in front of Elain, waiting for an answer, “It’s not like I don’t know how that baby got in there anyways.”

“Yes, yes, I listened!” she snapped, “It didn’t work any better than the other suggestions, okay?!”

“Don’t get that tone with me. I’m only trying to help,” Sohta packed up her implements and put them carefully back into the wooden box next to her vanity, “It’s still early yet anyways. You’re trying to rush your child into this world and they’re not ready.”

“I want it here before Paeris is.”

She clicked her tongue at Elain, “What an awful reason to want to see your baby. That spitefulness will pass on too if you don’t watch yourself.”

Elain crossed her arms over her chest, but didn’t reply. Sohta didn’t understand. No one understood. Paeris would use this child for his own ends, and she needed to take that power away from him. However unwanted it may have been, she refused to allow it. 

“I don’t like visiting you when you’re in this kind of mood,” Sohta sighed at her pouting, “I’m going back to the herd. Try the Sylaise’s Blessing again.”

She didn’t spend another second longer with Elain than she had to, and shuffled out of her yurt without even so much as a goodbye. It was annoying how everyone was so unwilling to be around her anymore. She knew she was being harder to deal with than usual, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t have reason. Everything was taking so much longer than she had anticipated; the hunters falling back into her camp, Den recovering and taking back his many duties, the Diceni adjusting to life in the valley...it was all frustrating to her beyond comparison. 

What she wouldn’t give to back and time and set things back to how they were. Back when she was respected and feared, when she merely had to say the word and her will was done. It had been far too long since she was able to give an order without someone questioning it immediately. She hated it. She hated the mess she got herself in. And as the tightening spasms in her abdomen started again, filling her with dull pain, she realized she hated what this child meant too. It wasn’t fair to blame her woes on it, but her mind could think of nothing else. She hoped it’s birth would help soften her resentment. 

Elain got out of the comfort of her cot, and stretched as she stood. It helped the aches a bit, but not much. She wished Sohta had massaged her a little longer, but her mood ruined another thing for herself. Her hands dropped back to her side, and she began to dress herself for the evening. 

As she pulled her dress over her head and settled it on her body, she heard a rustling of her wicker door being pushed to the side and someone joining her. 

“Elain!” Revas was out of breath and wide-eyed.

“You’re late,” she commented dully as she attempted to slip her boots back on. A sharp pain shot up her spine as she bent over to do so, and lacing up the leather left her out of breath. 

He looked around her room, then back at her in confusion, “Late for what?”

“Our lessons with Aricia,” she began to lecture him, “You’ve missed two sessions already, and left me stuck sitting with Nellia and her boring husband while they prattle on and on about baby names. I don’t want to do it either, but the hunters aren’t the only people living in this clan. We have to at least pretend to be happy to contribute to the families.”

Revas shook his head disbelievingly, “I don’t give a shit about Aricia and the hearthworkers right now. We’ve got bigger problems.”

“Bigger than us being banished and our child being raised away from its people?” she asked him as she moved to leave the yurt. As she neared Revas, she caught a whiff of a scent on him, and his tardiness suddenly made sense.

“It could be,” he said ominously, “Me and Llyn found something.”

“Was that before or after you two snuck off to get high in the middle of the day?”

He made a show of giving her a deep sigh, “Don’t start this again, Elain. I am not going to have this fight with you.”

“You’re right,” she walked past him towards her entrance, “You won’t.”

Elain pushed the wicker hanging to the side and stepped outside. The camp was filled with movement and activity, most everyone preparing for the evening meal, but she had her own duties to attend to. There would be time for eating and socializing after she made nice with Aricia. She made to walk towards the Hearth Matron’s pavilion, but Revas had followed her outside, and snaked his arm around her waist.

“If you don’t come with me to see what I found today, you are going to regret it,” he leaned over and whispered in her ear. It was uncharacteristically intimate for so many people around, and Elain understood he was trying to get suspicion off of them. Whatever he had found must be incredibly important. 

“Fine,” she whispered back, allowing herself to smile at the elves manning the looms as they passed them by, “But if it’s not as important as you say, you’re going to be the one to regret it.”

He led her gently to Llyn’s yurt in silence, but the grim look that settled over his face spoke volumes. She thought of everything that it could be; a wounded scout, a piece of information on Wycome, an incriminating letter. None would warrant such seriousness on Revas’ part. 

When she finally entered Llyn’s yurt and saw the body of the Diceni spy sprawled out on his cot, battered and emaciated, her hair cut and face bruised, Elain knew she owed her partner an apology.

“Maiden,” Sellarin said weakly, nodding her head into a slight bow of reverence.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed at the spy, closing the distance between them in Llyn’s cramped yurt. Sellarin’s eyes were swollen and sunken as she looked back up at her, and the sight chilled her.

“Didn’t get enough of Autini’s sights last time I was here. Had to book another trip as soon as I could,” she answered sarcastically before snorting and shaking her head, “I mean, does it really look like I’m hear on a social call?”

“Answer her,” Llyn pressed her, but Sellarin was unimpressed. 

“How about something to drink first? Got any milk?” she asked as she eyed Llyn. Elain glanced at the clan’s head scout, and realized that he had no idea who Sellarin was. She was trying to get rid of him.

“Go get our guest some warm milk, Llyn,” she ordered him abruptly as she stared down the spy, “And tell the Keeper I’d like to meet with her and Den in Old Bida’s yurt tonight.”

“What? Why?” Llyn asked in confusion.

“Do not question me. Either do as I say, or I will find someone who I know can follow my orders.” 

He looked between her and Revas, expecting the Banal’ras to defend him perhaps, but Revas didn’t meet his eye. Straightening his shoulders and sighing heavily, he left to do as he was told. He’d complain and whine to Den, but his petty grievances were inconsequential. This spy did not come here because she had good news, and Elain would need to focus all her energy on that.

“Now talk,” she commanded Sellarin. 

The spy took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, “You’re not going to like it. It’s bad.”

“I don’t care.”

She gave a short laugh, though it was not mirthful, “You asked for it....”

Elain and Revas stood in silence, waiting for her to explain her sudden appearance.

“Look. I got a little carried away,” she started, “Or maybe a lot carried away. There was lots of mead and everyone was excited to hear your story, so I thought I’d give ‘em the old one-two hit with a story about the Craftmaster too, right?”

Her eye twitched slightly at the mention of her father, “Go on.”

“Well, word got to the Keeper about my stories, and he came to hear them for himself after he got back from Antiva. He wasn’t a fan.”

“Shit,” Revas muttered and started to pace the small area of Llyn’s yurt. Elain sat on the cot next to Sellarin, her own legs starting to throb and feel weak. 

“Yeah, _‘shit’_ is right. He put me in isolation and tried to get me to talk. Offered me a better position, offered me a choice spot in Council sessions, bribed me with unlimited rations, put the screws to me a bit, the works. But I wasn’t talking, right? One thing you learn down in Tanaleth is when to keep your mouth shut.”

“So he doesn’t know where the rumors originated then?” she asked the spy hopefully. 

“Oh, he does,” Sellarin said solemnly, “See, I was trained not to talk under any circumstances. Bard’s secrets and all. I can handle a lil’ deprivation, some pain, anything thrown at me. Darvel though...he’s Diceni. Always has been. He was helping me because we’re friends, not because he wanted to be eyes in the North. He got spooked when I was locked up for a couple of weeks, and blabbed everything to Paeris so I’d be safe. The big, stupid softy.”

“Fuck!” Revas yelled, startling her. He turned and faced the spy, his face red with anger, “How much does he know?”

“Everything,” she admitted, “Ol’ Darvel didn’t know not to give him everything. He’s just a soldier, not used to this stuff. It was my fault for getting him involved.”

“It was,” Elain reprimanded her, “But there is nothing that can be done now. How did you get here?”

“I came to warn you. And to save my ass,” Sellarin explained, “Paeris is moving across the Free Marches, stopping at every clan and trade point on the way to get support. He brought me with him as proof that you were trying to sweep your wrongdoing under the rug. And after he was done with you, who knows what was going to happen to me. So while we were stopped over by Tantervale, I made a break for it. Choked out two of my guards and ran like a rabbit. And kept running. No camping, no fires, not even food. Had to get here as fast as possible or else it’d be useless.”

“How long ago was that?” she asked.

“Two days. I’m guessing Paeris and his troops are still about a week away. My escape isn’t as important as him making friendly with the other clans and the shemlen traders.”

A week. She knew Paeris’ arrival to exact judgment was imminent, but she did not like being confronted with it so aggressively. The upper hand was slipping through her hands like sand. 

“We’ll feed you and get you healed up, then send you back to Tanaleth,” Revas’ anger had given way to defeat, and it was plain in his voice. She didn’t like it.

“No, I can’t go back to Tanaleth!” Sellarin argued, “I have to go back to the steppes. Paeris didn’t bring Darvel and our friends with him. Dissenting voices and all that. I have to help them get out of there.”

“And have you get recaptured by Paeris or the rest of the Diceni who aren’t Darvel and your friends? No, you’re done here,” Revas shut down her request immediately, “All those months of building up are wasted now. Be thankful we’re even letting you walk out of here…”

“Enough, Revas,” Elain stopped him. The spy has made an error, but she refused to let this be the end. She hadn’t fought for so hard and so long to let Paeris come waltzing into the clan and overturn it all. Setbacks were expected. She would overcome them.

“Dinner is approaching and it will be dark soon. We’ll move you to Old Bida’s yurt in the night and have you healed. I’ll decide what to do then,” she said, then stood from her seat on the cot to leave. Before she could though, Sellarin reached out and grabbed her wrist.

“There’s something else,” she said seriously, “Keeper Paeris isn’t going to make the decision on your fate alone.”

“What?”

“He’s going to call a High Council,” Sellarin informed her, “No appeals. No clans disregarding Paeris’ decision. You’re going to be judged by the High Keepers and Scions themselves.”

“Gods…” Revas whispered at the information.

The room became suffocating, dense with the news of Paeris’ machination. She had not expected this. Elain had counted on his ego to make him want to decide the punishment for her indiscretions himself. She had been wrong. There was a miscalculation. An error. 

Her life and Revas’ life now hung in the balance. And she had to move quickly.

\-----

“How did she get hurt?” Keeper Deshanna asked as she moved her healing magic over Sellarin in Bida’s yurt later that evening. The spy winced as Deshanna passed over her ribcage.

“Scuffle with humans outside of Autini,” Revas responded dully, “Llyn picked her up when he was scouting for more Wycome intruders.”

“She’s lucky I found her,” Llyn affirmed the lie, “I don’t trust these shems from Wycome to play nice, even with a wounded elf.”

“You will be fine, da’len,” Deshanna assured the spy, smiling down on her gently. 

Elain sat stiffly next to Bida, the voices in the room barely registering. She attempted to focus on the movement of her child; it’s legs stretching and pressing against her insides, or the regular jumps from it’s hiccups. It was a way to settle herself, to center her thoughts on the matter at hand, but it wasn’t working. She did not look forward to doing what this, but it must be done. Everything depended on her nerves being steeled and her drive being single-minded. She would not allow anyone to take what she had fought so hard for. 

“So why did you want us here?” Den finally asked her from the corner of the room. They had all come to her meeting without question, and she was relieved at their trust in her. It made what she had to do all the more a pity. 

Elain shakily pulled two pieces of rolled parchment from the pocket of her dress. Both were sealed with wax --reserved for only the more important missives-- and marked with the seal of the Mother of Hares. Only the Maiden was able to use it, and it held authority among the Dalish. She hoped it would be enough.

“I have directives issued by my authority as Maiden of the Hunt in my hand,” she held the parchment pieces up high, “They are to be followed to the letter without question.”

The room went quiet, and confused glances fell on everyone’s faces, but Elain would not be swayed. 

“The first missive is to be taken to the Blood of the Embers; Ellya of Clan Abersher’al,” she continued, “It is a plea to aid Sellarin --the Diceni spy we have with us here-- in liberating the dissenting hunters of Clan Diceni. If she accepts the request, then I will owe her a debt to be paid in full when my title is affirmed by the High Council.”

“Elain, what are you doing…” Revas began, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

“Llyn will deliver this missive when he escorts Sellarin personally into Nevarra. He will also help her into Clan Diceni’s settlements, if the Blood accepts my request for aid.”

“You can’t do that!” Llyn panicked, looking between Revas and Den for someone to stop her. She ignored his outburst, and held up her second missive.

“This is an order, bestowed by my right as Maiden, to use any member of the Ethinan as I see fit in order to keep communication between scions on matters of Dalish safety. This is a matter of Dalish safety. There are Diceni hunters being held against their will in need of aid by our own kin, and as Maiden, I cannot let that stand. When a call for help is made, it is my duty to answer,” she felt the authority of her station keenly as she spoke, wrapping around her and everyone else in the room like a shroud, “This order also appoints Revas as Commander of the Ethinan until Llyn is able to return after his mission, as is his right as Banal’ras. He will take over Llyn’s seat on the Council for the time being.”

There was nothing but shock written on her fellows faces. Wide-eyes and pursed lips, cheeks reddening in anger, and panicked breathing becoming louder.

“You do realize what you’ve done, right?” the Warlord asked her, “You’re starting a war with Paeris and one in our own Council. The old guard won’t let Revas have his say.”

“They have no choice,” she responded calmly, “My authority is in tact, by the Keeper’s decision. They cannot override an order of mine enacted with that authority.”

“You harbored a spy here. You had me heal her!” Deshanna’s voice began to rise as the severity of the situation dawned on her. She stumbled away from an embarrassed-looking Sellarin on the floor, “You’ve made me complicit in starting a blood feud!”

“I did,” she confirmed, “And now you have no choice but to support me in front of our Council and the High Council Paeris is calling.”

“He’s...he’s calling a High Council? But why?” the Keeper was on the verge of breaking, and Elain wished it hurt her more to see it, but other things took precedence.

“Yup,” Sellarin cut in, rising up from the ground and stretching her healed limbs, “I’m guessing he doesn’t trust Lavellan to enforce his decision. And he doesn’t trust Elain to abide by anything he says. A High Council takes the choice away.”

“Gods, this isn’t right, it isn’t right,” Deshanna began to fall apart, “Liberating Diceni? Subterfuge with other scions? It’s insane! I could be exiled for allowing this to happen!”

“Which is why you will cooperate with me moving forward,” Elain said sternly, “All of you will. I have done this for the preservation of our way of life, and will not suffer anyone who will not do the same. Paeris will take Lavellan under his banner and will banish anyone who voices dissent. We are not starting a blood feud, merely escalating the actions Paeris has already taken. Your lives are just as much at stake now as mine.”

“I don’t like being threatened, girl,” Bida’s commented lowly, her weathered face set like stone, “I’ve endured your stumbling, but now you are testing my limits.”

“I’m sorry, hahren, but you know better than anyone what I had to sacrifice to get to where I am. I do not do this lightly.”

“You’ve entrapped your allies and made a power grab without consulting any of us. We will not forget this, and you would do well to not forget either,” the old Maiden spoke for everyone in the room, and the tension in the air was a silent agreement of their anger at her. It could not be helped. She knew they would not like it from the start, but her choices were limited. Paeris had to be stopped. 

“I won’t,” she replied quietly. She turned to the spy, “Sellarin, you and Llyn will leave tonight with my orders. You’re dismissed.”

“Elain, I can’t--” Llyn started to protest again.

“Dis _missed_.”

His face burned red and he shot mutinous looks around the room, but Llyn would fall in line. He was always more afraid of rejection than making a stand. They moved to leave the yurt, with Sellarin pausing next to her before they exited.

“For what it’s worth….thank you,” she whispered to Elain, then moved on again. There was no time to waste, and the spy knew more than anyone the stakes. 

Once they were gone, the room was quiet, with each of its occupants deep in their own thoughts, their own fears. Deshanna’s hands shook in her anxiety, while Den rubbed his brow impatiently. Even Revas was consumed by his own turmoil, unable to process her decisive action. 

“I had no choice,” she reassured them quietly, though it was just as much for her. The Warlord narrowed his eyes at her excuses.

“Yeah. Neither did we.”

\-----

“We’ve been looking for hours, Sal! These Dalish aren’t out here!” one of the dockworkers complained loudly as the group of refugees trekked up the winding sands of the Minanter.

“That one Dalish said they were, and all the other information we got outside the city confirmed it. They’re in this valley. I just don’t know where exactly,” he responded, annoyed with this constant complaining. 

Two days ago they left Wycome, and it was two day of torture for Sal. Everything was in that city. His home, his bar, his life. All his friends, relatives, his kids. He didn’t know what was happening to any of them, but the smoke that kept carrying on the wind blowing on their backs was a sure sign it was nothing good. 

“Can’t someone just...track them?” another dockworker asked, albeit apprehensively. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just put my ear to the Maker damned ground and listen for ‘em,” Sal snapped at him, “Of course we don’t got someone to track them. Most of you haven’t even lived outside of the city.”

“It was just a question,” the shamed dockworker mumbled.

“A stupid one,” Sal replied, “Now unless anyone has any good ideas, just be quiet. You’re making my head ache.”

“Why don’t we just go to Tantervale? Or Ostwick? Maybe someone there can help?” another person chimed in, making Sal’s temples throb. 

“Because, you flea-bitten gas bags, we’re elves! In case you forgot,” he was yelling now, his anxiety and frustration spilling out and over like an overfilled kettle, “We’re not going to get help from humans, and none of the other alienages are going to step in if it means a purge. This is the best chance for….”

A flash of light caught his eye.

“Best chance for…” he trailed off again as the flash became a rustling of footsteps. They started in front of the refugees, but Sal heard them spread out and surround him. He still couldn’t get a good sight on what he was hearing though.

“What’s going on Sal?” one of the workers asked anxiously.

Sal waved him off and looked in between and around the tree line on the edge of the waters of the river. He saw shadows moving, fast too, darting in and out of the dark spots that were hard to make out. They were well-hidden, but he didn’t need to see to know who was watching them.

“Hey!” he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “We’re here for someone!”

The movement stopped suddenly, and he swore he heard whispers between the trees, but it might’ve been just the wind. When a figure --fully armored and bow drawn-- exited from the darkness, he wasn’t relieved he had been right.

“No one comes to Autini looking for someone,” the figure said aggressively, his teeth bared, “What are you here for?”

Sal threw his hands up in the air, a sign of submission to get that damned arrow off him, “We’re from the alienage in Wycome. We need help.”

“And what makes you think we’ll help you, flat-ear?” the figure asked sharply. 

“Because that’s what we’re told the Maiden does,” he responded nervously, hoping this hunter would just calm down, “She has to help when an elf asks, and the entire alienage is asking for help. The humans are going to purge it.”

“Why?”

“They’re blaming us for a plague. And everything else. They killed our leader. Please, you have to help!” Sal pleaded with the mean looking hunter, growing desperate. The thought of those mercenaries murdering all those people…

The hunter looked over the group of refugees, then over his shoulder, back at the forest. Sal saw that other hunters had moved out of the shadows, and were appraising them with the same critical eye.

“We’ll let the Maiden decide,” the hunter said at last, “You come with me. The rest have to stay here.”

Sal nodded his head vigorously, and signaled for the refugees to stay put. It made him nervous following such a stiff guy, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was either get him on their side, or lose everything. 

But they had to help. Sal grew up on stories of the Maiden. They way she drove off pirates and raiders and bandits alike. Harpin Ice-Veins was originally from Wycome, and everyone could recite word for word how she chased him to the Waking Sea and beat him in one on one combat. If anyone could solve this, the she could.

He just had to convince Maiden Bida to take the risk, and going by the guarded looks these other hunters were giving him, Sal knew it was going to harder than it looked. 


	26. Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city elves of Wycome seek aid, and both the Inquisition and Clan Lavellan answer.

“What about this one darling?” Vivienne held up a beautiful mask, covered in seed beads of a striking pale yellow hue, and lined with delicate pearls anchoring lace ribbons. Sar’een took it gingerly from the First Enchanter’s hands and held it as if it were a child. 

“It’s so pretty,” she whispered under her breath, “It would be a waste on my face.”

“Your face could handle it just fine,” Vivienne responded gently, “But perhaps something more...humble? The Inquisition should give an air of nobility and power, not excess.”

Sar’een nodded in agreement and handed back the mask. The shelves of the small but luxurious shop in the markets of Val Royeaux were filled with every type of accoutrement imaginable; necklaces and brooches, long canes dipped in gold, parasols embroidered with family crests, and other gilded and glittering items were as much decoration as they were merchandise. The entire room seemed to exude extravagance, and it was more than Sar’een was used to . Surely they’d be able to find something that didn’t look like she’d be wearing an entire year’s worth of artisan’s pay on her face. 

“Perhaps a mask will be too presumptuous,” Vivienne mused as she let the tip of her finger glide over a another mask, this one silver and framed with downy feathers, “The players of The Game may find it in poor taste for an outsider to immerse themselves in a world they have never engaged in before. Some may even think you’re hiding your heritage behind a mask.”

“My heritage?” she asked.

“Your Dalish heritage, dear. Covering your tattoos might seem...suspect,” Vivienne explained, “A decent player would use that to their advantage. With the tension between Ambassador Briala and the elves and the Orlesian nobles running so high, any signs of you trying to shroud your background could be used against you.”

“So what do you suggest?” she gently flicked a pearl dangling off a thin, golden wire on a hennepin so like Vivienne’s own

“Striking the iron when it’s hot. Come into the Winter Palace with all the military pomp Josephine can muster to cow Grand Duke Gaspard, then make sure the assassination doesn’t transpire. Celene will owe you her life and all of the Empire of Orlais will eat from the Inquisition’s hand.”

“Yeah, scare a chevalier and stop a murder. Piece of cake,” Sar’een muttered. She pulled on the pearl on the hennepin, harder than she expected, and set the piece off balance. 

“I see you’re in no mood for planning today,” Vivienne observed, her eyebrow arching slightly, “Come, we’ll return to my estates and discuss other matters. The accoutrement for the Winter Palace can wait.”

They walked out from the cluttered store -- the hennepin still off balance and Sar’een letting herself not care-- and into the bright spring sun, where it’s light reflected off the gilded spires of Val Royeaux’s market district. The distance to Vivienne’s estates was not far, but they climbed into a small carriage that would take them there anyways. Too many prying eyes on the streets.

Sar’een wished she could have walked the distance to work off some of her thoughts. Gods knew she needed it. The whole ordeal of the Winter Palace was making her irritated beyond normal as of late. The idea of saving an empress who so mercilessly slaughtered her people sat in the pit of her stomach like a stone. It almost made her feel like she was condoning the Empress’ actions, agreeing that she did what needed to be done. 

Yet, since becoming Inquisitor, Sar’een was slowly beginning to understand doing what needed to be done wasn’t always pretty. Making difficult decisions because no one else would. She was learning when to use a light touch, and when to use her fist; the force of her words versus the force of her sword. They weren’t decisions made lightly, but she had made them, and endured the consequences of them. Political blowback had reached her as well as accolations, praise and jeering both for her choices. The decisions had been been difficult at first, and she would spend hours poring over them, deciding what the right thing to do was. Who was to say Celene hadn’t done the same, especially after sitting for so long on the throne?

She called on every lesson she was ever taught by Paeris to try to reconcile her dilemma now. He had trained her to be a Keeper of her People, not the Inquisitor, but the same rules applied. Know when to exercise power and when to exercise caution. Understand your kin and what the want, then decide what it is they really need. Even the logistics of moving people and supplying tradelines for survival. His lessons had been useful, practical, and gave her strength when she had needed it the most. 

But they were no replacement for her mentor himself.

_“Leadership is universal, da’len. The Diceni need the same guidance that any clan needs,” Paeris explained to her as he packed away his belongings in his yurt. She sat on the woven rugs on the floor, watching him intently, a sense of dread hanging above her like a cloud. The day of his departure was coming soon, and she was not prepared for it._

_“But they live so differently than we do! How can you know what they need?” she pressed him, unable to fathom how he could transition from two wholly different clan cultures. If it was Clan Alerion or Clan Silure, she could understand. But the Diceni were strange to her, with their eagles and their mounted hunting and their life in a settlement, working the land. They were as different from Lavellan as a city elf was to a human._

_“Needs are also universal. We all need food, water, enrichment. Once you understand how each clan receives each of these, it all becomes easier.”_

_“I think it’s going to harder than you imagine,” she countered, the little rebellion building up in her heart spilling over, “You always underestimate how difficult people can be.”_

_He shook out an old cloak of his with a chuckle, “And you always remind me of the faults that could actually sabotage me. It will be difficult, I have no illusions of that. But it’s my duty, and the victory will be all the sweeter if it’s hard won.”_

_She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed, “When you say it like that, it makes you sound like some warlord commanding a bunch of hunters into battle.”_

_“There’s little difference between what a Keeper does and what a Warlord does--”_

_“Are you kidding? Den and Deshanna methods are as close as oil and water,” she countered with a laugh. He laughed lightly along with her while he tucked the old cloak away in a small wooden chest._

_“True, but when you break it down into the very basic functions, the difference is negligible. Warlord Den does what’s best for his subordinates, making sure their needs are met so they can contribute on a greater level as a whole. Deshanna does the same. Her leadership just extends to the entire clan instead of the hunters,” he explained to her gently._

_Sar’een shook her head at his explanation, “I still think you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I’ve heard the Diceni are as tough as an old hare. What if they reject your ideas?”_

_“It’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’d rather risk rejection and defeat than never have tried at all,” he paused his packing for a moment, and sat on the small stool next to his cot with a sigh, “But these are all things we’ve spoken of before. What’s really bothering you, Little Dove?”_

_She shifted uncomfortably on her spot on the floor, and suddenly wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. He always got to the bottom of the matter, whether she liked it or not, and it wasn’t something she had been ready to give voice to just quite yet. But he looked on her sympathetically, concern painting his eyes, and she resigned herself to spilling the truth. She was never good at hiding anything from him anyways._

_“It’s just….do you really have to go? I don’t think I’m ready to study under a new hahren,” she revealed, “And I’m going to miss you.”_

_Paeris reached out and grabbed her hand in his and grasped it tightly to comfort her._

_“I do have to leave. And I will miss you too, but it is for the best,” he said, “You’ve grown into your own person, and it’s time for you to start to lead on your own. Your little wings will never learn to fly if I keep protecting you.”_

_“I’m not ready to lead though,” she confessed to him, “There is so much more for me to learn. I can’t make good decisions if I don’t know everything yet!”_

_“You’re wrong,” he stated firmly, “You will never know everything. The world is full of more knowledge than you could ever hope to acquire in one lifetime. What’s important is what you already possess: your intelligence and your patience. Those two things will take you further than any lesson I can give you.”_

_“I don’t think those will help me make the hard decisions like they help you,” she said defeatedly. He was leaving, and there was nothing she could do._

_He pulled gently on her hand and stood up with her, “You would be surprised. When the time comes, you will be able to make the tough choices that others would falter from. I have faith in you.”_

_“Well, I hope you’re ready to come rescue the clan when I accidentally set it on fire or something.”_

_He gave her another laugh, this one from deep inside him that made his entire face light up._

_“You’ll be fine,” he assured her with a smile, “Now come on. We’ll have some supper and spend the evening reading the stories you wrote.”_

_She nodded her head in agreement, letting him lead her outside, and Sar’een allowed herself forget for another night that she’d be losing the only brother she’d ever known._

“Darling, did you hear me?” Vivienne asked her with her voice slightly raised. Sar’een was startled out of her daydreamed memory, and saw their transport approaching the sprawling entrance to Madame de Fer’s private estate. 

“No, I’m sorry,” she replied, “A lot on my mind.”

“Of course there is. You have no small task ahead of you,” she said gently, “I was just commenting on how Ambassador Montilyet is waiting at the entrance for us. Rather anxiously, it seems.”

Sar’een looked out the carriage window to see Josephine wringing her hands with worry outside the great cobalt blue doors of the mansion. It concerned her. Josephine was always calm in the face of pressure; their Ambassador had to be. The nobles of Thedas were dangerous and powerful, and Josie always knew how to handle them with and expertise touch. Whatever was causing her this worry was urgent.

Before the the carriage came to a complete stop, Sar’een opened the little door enclosing them and hopped onto the ground.

“Inquisitor! You’re here!” Josephine called in relief.

“What’s going on?” she asked her Ambassador as she approached. 

“I sent out Commander Cullen to look for you. There’s urgent news!” Josephine grabbed her by the wrist and pushed open the great doors to the estate. She guided her roughly towards a parlor they had been using for debriefings since their arrival, and once inside, she saw that Leliana was pacing the floor. Two pieces of parchment were rolled out on the large oak table in the center of the room. 

“Correspondence from Wycome,” the spymaster pointed at the letters on the table as she heard Josephine and Sar’een enter the room, “One from Josephine’s agent and one from your Keeper. The situation has turned desperate.”

Sar’een quickly snatched up the missives off the table and read them over. 

“Lady Volant has sent an encoded message in the letter. The Duke of Wycome has poisoned the city well water with red lyrium, except for the ones that provide for the alienage. He is orchestrating a blame on the elves for the madness the red lyrium is causing, though we don’t know exactly why yet,” Leliana explained as she took in the words on the parchment, “The Lady advises not using direct force. Wycome is a city, but like all the Free Marcher cities, it has formidable forces.”

She nodded at the assessment, recognizing the coded language the Lady Volant used to send the message, “If he plans on purging the alienage, sending forces would be a terrible idea. We can’t let another Halamshiral happen.”

Setting down the message from the spy in Wycome, Sar’een reached for the letter from her clan. 

_Da'len,_

_The nobles of Wycome grow more agitated by the day. They clearly blame us and the elves in the alienage for some disease that has stricken the humans of the city, and I have seen their scouts watching our new camp with predators' eyes._

_Some of the elves of Wycome fled their alienage to warn us. Others fled to escape the harsh treatment they are suffering in the city._

_I fear violence will come soon, da'len. I ask your help in this matter._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellen_

“The alienage elves have already reached my clan,” she said as she scanned the words for a second time. Deshanna was no spy, but her words were obscuring the true danger she most likely felt. She understood that they still didn’t trust the Inquisition, “Lavellan will want to act. They will not wait around for me to send help.”

“Then what shall we do, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked her. Sar’een bit her lip in thought. 

There were so many ways for this to go. So many ways for this to fail. If she sent in troops, there would be bloodshed. If she didn’t, whatever elves didn’t flee the alienage would continued to be subjugated to the Duke’s madness. Or worse. And her clan was in no position to take on so many refugees. They would still be recovering from the mercenary attack in the previous winter. So many pieces, but how to all fit them together? And how would she ensure that she didn’t make the same mistakes the Empress did?

The answer came to her clearly, as clear as any waiting pool or summer sky. It was crystalline in its brilliance, and if it worked, it could possibly change things for the better for her people and her kin. Sar’een would need to be very careful about this, but there would be no time to mull the decision over, no time for hesitation. Lives were depending on her. 

“We cannot send troops. I will not risk an immediate purge and bloodshed. The elves in Wycome have already suffered enough,” she began giving her instructions to her waiting advisors, “But I can’t sit and wait for something to justify intervention. That red lyrium is going to destroy the humans living there too.”

“My agents can sneak into the city--”Leliana began to suggest.

“No,” Sar’een stopped her, “If humans sneak in and eliminate the problem, the human residents in Wycome will continue living as if nothing happened and the elves are still a scapegoat for every problem that comes up. There is a better solution.”

Josephine and Leliana looked between each other, their glances worried, but this was not something she would shy away from. She had felt powerless for so long. Now, she had all the power to make a difference. She would not let the chance slip through her hands.

“Have your agents recruit smugglers that know their way around Wycome. Do it as soon as possible,” she leaned over the wooden table in the center of the room and gave her commands, her trepidation melting away and making way for determination, “I want them outside of Wycome within the week, ready to intercept my clan. I have no doubt that Lavellan will plan to do something about this, with or without my permission. We need to be ready to help them.”

“Are you sure, Inquisitor? An attack on a human city by elves will draw the attention of the rest of the Free Marches,” Leliana asked in warning. 

“I’m sure,” she replied firmly, an attempt to not second guess her decision, “Dalish hunters are not soldiers. They will go for their prey and leave everything else be. The Duke will be stopped, one way or another.”

Leliana and Josephine both affirmed her orders and after they briefly discussed logistics, Sar’een dismissed their meeting. She left the room and walked aimlessly down the long corridors of Vivienne’s home in Val Royeaus, nearly sick with worry. The need to act had been apparent. There could be no half measures now. 

And yet, she still doubted. The burden of liberating the city from the Duke was falling on her family, and she was using them for her own ends. But Sar’een could see exactly how the Council meeting to decide on a course of action would go in her mind’s eye, and was banking on them doing what she saw there. Elain would act. Any chance to seize glory would be worth the risk to her, especially now that she was in such a precarious position. 

She almost couldn’t believe it when she read the letter Elain sent her announcing her pregnancy, but years and years of little behaviors started to make sense. The closeness between her and Revas, the stolen glances, the special treatment, and Revas’ absolute loyalty to her. She and the rest of the clan must have been blind to not see it. A year ago, the announcement would have scandalized Sar’een; now, it was almost funny. The clans would not find it humorous, however, and Elain was probably growing desperate. Because of that desperation, she knew without a doubt Elain would insist on moving to infiltrate Wycome and dispose of the Duke, and she knew that Elain would resort to some ancient rite in order to get what she wanted. And the Maiden always got what she wanted.

Sar’een was counting on it. Her plan to eliminate the Duke and save the elves depended on it. It felt strange moving around pawns like this, orchestrating things without letting anyone know what she truly intended. But she knew for certain that the noble allies of the Inquisition could care less about the elves in a Marcher city alienage and wouldn’t provide any support for the sake of saving face. If she moved the pieces herself though, the future of Wycome was in her hands.

The opulent halls and decadent artistry of the wing that she wandered through now reminded Sar’een of the task still at hand. She struck a course to find Vivienne, her determination still resting on her shoulders snugly like a cloak. A coup in Wycome would be nothing compared to the Winter Palace, and she was going to need all the help she could get.

\----

“And then you wrap the cloth under the baby’s right arm, like this!” Nellia exclaimed as she tucked the linen blanket under a stuffed doll meant to mimic an infant. She was immensely proud of her work, and lifted the stuffed child in the air to show her husband and everyone else watching.

“It looks perfect,” Aricia complimented her, and Nellia’s husband, Arthwyn, beamed with pride at his wife’s excellent work. 

Elain looked down on her stuffed doll, and frowned at it’s barely contained arm and the sloppily made swaddling. It’s straw-packed head was prickly and mangled from her struggles to get it right, and looked as if it was pleading her to put it out of its misery. She probably should. It would be better off in the Beyond than in her hands. 

She let the doll plop on the floor rested her chin on her hand instead as she and Revas had to watch Arthwyn now attempt to swaddle his and Nellia’s doll child. Nellia had decorated it garishly by sewing wooden beads on it’s face for eyes, drawing lips and nose with ash from the hearth, and making a tiny outfit out of scrap linen. The sad little homunculi laying next to her could only see into the Banalhan and the horrors that awaited it there. 

The poor thing. 

“How’s this?” Arthwyn held up his immaculately swaddled straw child, and Nellia squealed at his work. 

“Very good, Arthwyn,” Aricia said as she checked for the snugness of the wrapping, “You’ve come a long way since we started.”

“Thank you, hahren,” the hunter responded solemnly, and she heard Revas snort next to her. Elain nudged him roughly to get him to shut up, but it was too late. Aricia had heard, and she turned her sharp, judgmental eyes on them. 

They sat on the cushioned floor of her yurt, but they may as well be back under the dirt-packed pavilions of their childhood, when Aricia and Kellen were in charge of their education, and when the pair had made a game out of getting each other in trouble with their Hahrens. The same scrunched up brow, the same red tinging her cheeks, and the same huff of breath she would let out before a lecture came out now, and Elain sighed at Revas acting just like he did when they were kids.

“So typical that you would laugh at what you yourself can’t accomplish, Shem’assan,” Aricia said tartly, her wrinkled forehead and greying hair the only indicator that anything had changed and that two were both approaching thirty instead of thirteen, “Instead of laughing, you should listen and learn. A bow will do you little good when you have a screaming infant.”

“I think you underestimate just how good my bow is,” Revas replied with an impish grin, making Arthwyn smirk and Nellia blanche behind Aricia. 

The Hearth Matron pulled the birch switch from her belt so quickly, he had no time to escape the sharp thrash of it against his knuckles. He let out a yelp at the sudden hit, pulling his hand in the air and shaking it out from the pain. Aricia stared death into him, and Elain buried her face in her palm in embarrassment.

“There’s more where that came from if you keep acting like a child,” Aricia snapped at him, waving the switch menacingly, “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to teaching you how to take care of a baby so you don’t smother it in your ignorance.”

He mumbled something under his breath, and she raised the switch as if she made to hit him again. 

Revas threw his hands up in the air, “Alright! I’ll listen!”

“Good. You’ve missed too many lessons already. I am beginning to fear for the safety of your progeny,” she placed the switch back into her belt, “Now if we can continue without anymore interruptions--”

As if by coincidence or divine intervention, there was a commotion outside the stuffy Hearth Matron’s yurt; voices were raised and panicked, and the quick shuffle of feet indicated a lot of movement. Before she could even stand to see what the issue was, she heard yelling.

“Where’s Elain? Has anyone seen Elain?”

She looked at Revas, and he grabbed hold of her arm to help her off the ground without a further word. The parenting lessons could wait. 

“What’s going on?” Nellia asked with a quivering voice full of fear, but she had no time to comfort her. 

They rushed to the outside of the yurt, looking around for the subject of the disruption and the person seeking her. The search was over quickly when Twig caught sight of them and waved them down from the maelstrom of the scared artisans and hearthworkers. 

“Thank the Goddess you’re both here!” Twig let out a sigh of relief as they approached him, “You have to come with me. There’s an emergency Council meeting. Now.”

“What for?” she asked him as they began to rush to the Council pavilion. People all around them were packing and loading aravels. Artisans were dismantling the larger loom and hearthworkers were rushing too and fro, their arms full of blankets and baskets. 

“Wycome’s gone to shit,” he replied breathlessly. He had probably ran all the way from the river to find them, “The Duke there is purging the alienage. Some refugees crossed into our hunting grounds, asking for the help. The Ethinan only allowed one into camp, but the rest got impatient and overwhelmed them. Now we’ve got about thirty terrified city elves crying for our hunters to save them.”

“Thirty refugees should’ve been no match for the Ethinan. What happened?” Revas pressed him.

“What were they supposed to do? Shoot them? They ran from their home because the humans are killing them!” 

“Quiet,” Elain hushed them, “We’ll deal with the Ethinan later. First, we have to find out what’s going on in Wycome.”

“Good luck with that,” Twig grumbled, “I have to get back on the perimeter. Need to be there if violence breaks out between the hunters and the the refugees.”

He ran in another direction while she and Revas continued their march to the Council. She had known Wycome was deteriorating, but it frightened her to know how much. 

They entered the crowded pavilion and found the tension inside already high. Everyone but for Aricia and a few others had already gathered, and going by their sour faces and pursed lips, and argument had already broken out. Elain and Revas made their way to the seat next to Old Bida at the head of the pavilion, and waited for Deshanna to begin discussions.

She hadn’t seen the city elf among them first. But as her eyes scanned the room as she waited, they fell upon someone who she had never seen before. His face was devoid of vallaslin, and his clothes weren’t of Dalish make. He was middle aged, his face scarred, his nose crooked, and his eyes were wide with fear. Or fascination. Either way, they were like beacons from across the room, and leading Elain’s gaze directly upon him, as a lighthouse guides in a ship to shore. There was a compulsion in it, one she couldn’t describe as anything other than willful. It wasn’t her will though. It was someone else’s entirely. She swallowed deeply at the thought.

“I apologize for the short notice, ma falons,” Deshanna began to speak, and Elain drew her eyes off of the Wycome elf and back to the matter at hand, “But there was no choice in the matter. We have received dire news, and the matter must be investigated right away.”

Quiet whispers erupted from the pavilion, but Deshanna ignored them for once.

“Andaran atish’an, lethallin,” she said directly to the city elf before turning again to face everyone else, “We welcome our kin from Wycome into this meeting in hopes of coming up with a solution to a threat that has befallen them. Please welcome our guest as you would any of our other honored kin.”

The gathered people all nodded their heads and gave the city elf small greetings, filling the room with a cacophony of voices falling over each other. Elain merely stared at him again.

“I know you are nervous lethallin, but we must have answers from you now,” Deshanna told the outsider gently, “Please tell us everything you can.”

The city elf looked rapidly all over the room, obviously unsettled by the amount of people packed in the small space. Deshanna had been foolish to allow this kind of questioning in front of the entire Council. She should have let Revas and the Ethinan handle it. 

To his credit, he seemed to get his nerve quite quickly, and he stood to address the room.

“I already told you all what I know. The Duke’s trying to get rid of the elves because they blame us for that plague all the folks on Poppy Avenue are getting. The whole city’s gone mad, even the guards. They couldn’t work anymore, so the Duke brought in this merc company. They killed our leader and are purging my home as we speak! So if you gas bags don’t mind, I want talk to Maiden Bida _like I asked_!”

The last words were yelled, and the room went silent in shock. Even Elain was startled by his outburst. She did not expect an outsider to shout down an entire pavilion of the most respected people in her clan. 

“And what do you want to talk to Maiden Bida about?” Old Bida asked him wryly. She sat as poised as always under her pile of furs, her face showing no signs of any reaction to the elf’s words. 

“I need to talk to her about helping my people!” he said pleadingly, cupping his hands together in frustration, “I was told that’s what the Maiden does. If you ask her for help, she has to do it!”

“You were lied to,” Bida responded dryly, “The Maiden only has to respond to calls for help from other Dalish. Besides, I am far too old to be running into any fights.”

The outsider’s face contorted in his anger at the realization that he was already speaking to Maiden Bida. He dropped all pretenses of being a guest, and tried to rush his way to the front of the pavilion. Aneth’ail, quietly standing watch over him at the side of the room, grabbed onto his shoulder tightly and pulled him back. 

“Please. Please, I’m begging you. You have to help!” the elf cried as the Hand of Vengeance tried to move him towards the entrance of the pavilion, “Donovan’s merc’s killed Jossa! We have no leader, and the ones left are holding out with their lives!”

“Donovan?” Revas rose from his spot on the floor and Aneth’ail stopped abruptly, “Captain Donovan?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy! His band has been running wild in the alienage and just hurtin’ whoever they feel like! You’re the only thing standing between them and a lot of innocent people,” the outsider replied desperately, “Please!”

It was already decided. No amount of arguing would turn the hunters away from having their vengeance on Donovan for Minanter. Aneth’ail would also require a blood debt to be paid. There wouldn’t even be an argument. It was just a matter of going through the motions. Donovan’s blood would be spilled no matter what.

And Elain knew she could use that to her advantage.

“The Maiden will accept your request,” she said loud enough for the entire pavilion to hear, “But there is a price.”

The city elf looked at her in confusion, “But she’s too old to help…”

“Did you assume that we would lose a Maiden after Bida was no longer able to hunt?” she spoke to him firmly, letting him --as well as the rest of the Council-- be made aware of her authority, “I am the Maiden of the Hunt here now. And I demand a price. Will you pay it?”

“Yes yes! Anything!” the poor fool was too eager. Or too desperate. 

She lifted her chin high and squared her shoulders, “Then I want Donovan’s head. His life is mine to take and do as I see fit, and once I receive my due, I am released from the contract.”

He nodded his head furiously, “Yes, take it! What do I care about some shem scum-sucker? Put his head on a spit and roast him for all I care! Just...just help me. My family’s there. My kids. The only home I’ve ever know. Please!”

“Your call will be answered. Return to the rest of the waiting refugees so they do not agitate my hunters. My Banal’ras will speak to you once a plan has been made,” she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and a hunter standing near the entrance of the pavilion ushered the city elf out. 

“Bless you, Maiden! May all your gods bless you!” he called over his shoulder as he exited, but it didn’t move her. Rather, she pitied the poor soul so lost to his People, he didn’t even know the names of their gods. 

When the outsider was gone, the uncharacteristic quiet of the Council left, and the loud whispers and comments returned in force.

_“She made the decision without us!”_

_“She’s becoming a tyrant!”_

_“It was the right choice.”_

_“What are the Diceni going to say about this?”_

None of their asinine gossip affected her, but hearing the voices bring up the Diceni reminded her of Aneth’ail and Warlord Threlen’s presence in the meeting. There was no way they would sit this situation out. Aneth’ail had a duty to enact as The Hand. And Threlen….she wasn’t exactly what Threlen’s game was. After all this time, he was as elusive to her as the sun in the sky. His role in the coming action was an unknown that would need to be addressed.

“Quiet! Quiet on the floor,” Deshanna called over the crowd, and the voices finally quieted again, “I will take opinions on this matter, but let it be known that I agree with the Maiden’s terms for aid. We cannot let our cousins in the city suffer through this. I also fear what it means for our own people, and the violent backlash any action may cause. I will write to the Inquisitor and ask for her assistance.”

“No,” Elain said sharply to the Keeper, “There’s no time. They are _purging_ the alienage. If we wait for a response from Sar’een, it will be too late. We need to act now.”

“I agree,” Den cut in, “We can’t wait around for someone to tell us what to do. We have to stop this.”

“With what resources? Our hunters are still diminished and overworked from Minanter,” Loremaster Kellen argued.

“It was a foolish decision to offer assistance. There are no resources for us to support refugees, no long term plans,” Vhannas spoke, and Elain’s chin subconsciously dropped. She still couldn’t bear to look at him, “I gave the order to have artisans start packing for when the inevitable retaliation from Wycome comes.”

“That was premature. And presumptuous,” Old Bida chastised him, “It would more prudent to hold here where we can defend then to run again. But leave it to a craftsman to not want to see the blood his weapons will shed.”

“I think we’ve seen enough bloodshed for many seasons, Maiden. I am protecting all we have built up instead of tearing it down for some vendetta,” Vhannas countered calmly, “Throwing away our entire livelihood on a gamble to save flat ears is not something I can agree with.”

“Luckily, I don’t need you to agree,” Elain interrupted his argument coldly before standing up. She smoothed her cloak, lifted her chin high once again, and addressed the Council, her innate authority proudly on display, “By my rights as Maiden, I am invoking a Dire Hunt on Captain Donovan for the lives he so ruthlessly stole from us. I will not be satisfied until his blood is spilled in the name of all those who died at Minanter, and in the name of The Mother of Hares. His dying breath will be mine, for the Glory of Andruil.”

There was a polite applause that broke out, instigated by a few of the lead hunters attending the meeting, and to her relief, there seemed to be no voices other than her father’s objecting to her decision. In spite of their constant bickering and infighting since the Conclave, even Kellen would be able to see how important it was to stop Donovan. A purge in the alienage may not affect them today, but once there was no more life to take there, he would turn his sights back on Lavellan.

“There is no doubt Donovan must be punished,” Warlord Threlen’s voice cut through the small congratulations of her decision from his place near Den, “But Lavellan has no Warlord to lead them against him. Nor does it have a plan. This is reckless.”

“There’s no choice,” Aneth’ail responded to his father’s apprehension, much to Elain’s surprise. The entire time they had stayed among Lavellan had been nothing but continuous cooperation and agreement between the two, “Vengeance must be served, by all the ancient rites preserved from the Old Empire. Elgar’nan’s Hand will reach out to stop this menace from killing anymore of our kin, and Lavellan will lead the charge.”

“Then we should wait for Keeper Paeris to arrive with reinforcements. Defending the alienage will be a large undertaking,” Threlen replied. 

“No. There’s no time to wait,” Elain cut in quickly. If she waited for Paeris to arrive, this would become a Diceni operation, and her authority would be diminished. She had to move fast if she wanted to turn this chaos to her favor, “We will move tomorrow. The bulk of the hunters will sneak into the city proper and defend the alienage. The rest will stay here to defend our campgrounds until my brother arrives. Then he can send his reinforcements, along with Sar’een when she responds.”

“We can’t hesitate now, Warlord,” Deshanna explained gently, “Clan Lavellan has had good trade relationships with the cities of the Free Marches, including with merchants living in the alienages. And despite them living in a city, they are still our kin, still descendents of Our Great Empire. They’ve come for our help, and we will help them.”

“Then I offer up myself to lead the incursion into the city. Sadly, ma falon, you are still in no condition to fight,” Warlord Threlen relented and looked on Den with pity. Den frowned at the statement.

“And sadly, ma falon, my hunters won’t follow you. We both know these last few months have been tense,” Den shut him down, “The Diceni hunters and my own are on edge with each other, and Lavellan won’t be happy taking orders from the Warlord leading the source of their resentment.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Den sank further in his cushioned spot on the slightly raised dais of the pavilion with a sigh, and reached for his ever-present bottle of wine, “Revas will go in my stead. He was at Minanter and knows how Donovan fights. And I know the hunters will follow his orders.”

“That’s settled then. Tomorrow the hunters from Lavellan and Diceni will journey to Wycome to answer a call for help from our cousins. May the Creators protect them,” Deshanna spoke the words quietly, and there was a solemness that settled over the room.

It had been inevitable. The scouts that had been peeking into their perimeter, the refugees, and now confirmation that Donovan was there...it all led up to a clash the was bound to happen. At least she would control the how and where. The Council members dispersed, scared and hopeful in equal parts of what the next day would bring, and she was left with her closest confidants. 

They sat in the quiet, even as the busy work of the late afternoon began to pick up again outside, each deep in their own thoughts. Everytime she tried to think ahead, however, she would feel the baby pressing against the base of her spine again, making her wince in discomfort. 

She would not let it deter her, however, from what must be done. Carrying the child had been a nuisance, but an end was in sight. But a closer end approached. The end to her turmoil with Paeris, if she plotted correctly. Den and Revas and Sohta and everyone else would not like it, but it must be done.

“I’m going as well,” she finally admitted to her waiting circle. They would fight her, she knew, but she wouldn’t be moved.

“Out of the question,” Revas said bluntly, “You’re eight months pregnant. Making a stand in an alienage is not safe.”

“Don’t try to convince me otherwise. I will not wait here again while my hunters risk their lives.”

“Elain, be reasonable!” Sohta raised her voice in exasperation, “Who knows what is going to happen there. You have to think of the safety of your child!”

“She’s right da’len. Let it go, just this once,” Deshanna agreed.

“I’m not requesting your permission. A Dire Hunt has been invoked, and it is my duty to see it through. I will refrain from fighting, but I will _not_ sit on the sidelines again. This is my battle as much as anyone’s,” she answered their patronizing hotly. 

“You’re not going Elain,” Revas answered her darkly. She rose from her seat --slowly and with effort due to the baby-- and faced all their worried faces.

“Do not speak to me like that again. My condition has limited me, but I am not a useless child to be ordered around. I will go to Wycome and rally the alienage. I will command the hunters through you from the field. And I will make sure we return as liberators and saviors -- with or without your approval.”

She turned and walked out of the pavilion without waiting for another answer, though she heard them all voicing their objections. They would be ignored as well. Her mind was set, and nothing they could say would change it.

Elain was going to Wycome, and she was going to show Paeris that treachery against her and all she loved was paid back in blood.

\----

Sohta had come to her yurt the night before in an effort to try to change her mind again, but it had not worked. She cried and screamed and wailed but Elain’s heels had been dug in. The possibility of victory far outweighed the dangers to her, and no amount of guilt or claims of recklessness would turn her. Sohta couldn’t comprehend why. None of them could. They did not live with the threat of Paeris taking away everything they had suffered for.

Revas had _not_ come to her last night; the first night since they told the Council of her pregnancy that he had not been there. It pained her and made her feel alone, but she understood. He was undoubtedly angry with her. Even in her desperation, she knew this would drive a wedge between them. Revas knew better than to try to stop her, but he also wanted to protect her. It was endearing and infuriating all at once. She wished is didn’t have to be this way.

Elain threw her Mantle around her shoulders, preparing for the journey to Wycome, and thought of the many ways this could still go wrong, and all she was throwing away to save this heavy fur that sat so comfortably now on her neck. She picked up her bow and slung it over her shoulder --along with her traveling bag-- and smoothed out her hair. She wanted to put on her armor as well, but had to settle for her shoulder guards and guantlets. The chest piece would no longer fit.

She made for a poor huntress right now, and despite her determination, she felt a wave of melancholy fill her mind over how fall she had fallen. Elain had been great once. Full of promise and talent and raw power. What she saw in herself now was exactly like her father described; a docile beast of burden with it’s neck bared, ready for the slaughter. Wycome would let her fight back. Wycome would let her be glorious again.

“Elain?”

She turned to see Nellia peeking her head inside her yurt, her eyes wide and frightened. 

“I have no time for talk today,” she dismissed her brusquely, “We will be leaving within the hour.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said quietly, and let herself inside the yurt. She bunched her hands in her soot-covered apron and twisted the fabric in her fists.

“Make it quick,” Elain said as she finished tying her leather bracer. Nellia took a deep breath before she started.

“I started having heavy contractions. My baby is going to be here very soon. With a few days, Aricia said,” she started, her trepidation as clear as a summer day, “And...and...I really want Arthwyn here for it! He should see the birth of our first child!”

Elain yanked on the bracer, securing it in place, “I’m sorry, but every hunter will be needed for this task. We are saving hundreds of elves and possibly deposing a Duke. Arthwyn’s duty is to do as the needs of the clan command.”

“Yes, and of course he will obey!” Nellia cried pitifully, “But can’t you just...command him to stay here? Please Elain, I want him to see our baby! I don’t want to do this alone!”

“The answer is no.” If she allowed one hunter to escape his duty, others would be resentful or expect the same treatment. She refused to allow favoritism to taint this mission.

But Nellia was not happy with the answer.

“Please, please Elain!!” she cried loudly and grabbed onto her arm, pulling her as she fell to her knees dramatically, “I don’t want to do this without him! I need him! You don’t understand! _PLEASE!_!”

She sobbed uncontrollably on the floor of her yurt, no longer even able to form words. It was just tearful jibberish, hysterical nonsense, and yet, Elain felt profound pity for her. The memory of her desperate begging for Revas to stay with her before he went to fight at the Minanter floated in her mind, and remembered how helpless and lost she felt. She would’ve given anything for him to stay. But she had gathered her courage and sent him off herself, just as it was expected. She couldn’t help it if Nellia refused to do the same.

“You don’t care, you don’t care, you never care,” Nellia continued to sob loudly, unaware of everything but her grief, “It’s always you and about you and what you want and you don’t care about anything but that.”

Elain shook Nellia off her hand and finished putting on her other bracer as she cried on the floor. When she was done, she exited out of her yurt to join Revas and the rest of the hunters, leaving the distraught woman by herself with her pain. Nellia would need to learn to do things on her own anyway. It was for the best.

Everything she was doing was for the best. All for the best.


	27. Undermine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forces of Clan Lavellan find an unexpected way into Wycome to stop the purge in the alienage.

When they had arrived at Wycome, Revas had not expected for it to be so...empty. Though the warband had not entered the city proper yet, the Ethinan kept bringing back reports of desolation. The fields of the Minanter delta sat unworked. The penned livestock surrounding the homesteads vacated. The main road all but abandoned. They’d come out of the rocky hills that rested to the southwest of Wycome, and had not run into one person. Not even a guard patrol.

Gulls squaked loudly and picked at the untended fields, pulling up worms brought up to the surface by the heavy spring rains, as the warband made their way closer and closer to the city itself on muddy road. They had stopped trying to hide hours ago, when they realized there was nothing to hide from. No peering eyes watching an entire company of dalish hunters trekking through the swamped land from where the river rose and overflowed from the season’s rains, and no curious face looked out from the windows of the ramshackle huts and homes dotting the landscape. 

It wasn’t right. Wycome was the Gateway of the Free Marches; the pearl among the shells of the other Marcher cities. It was the sentinel against the Amaranthine Ocean, the port to Rialto Bay and the trade from Antiva, and the great restocking depot for sailors from Llomerynn. Not only that, but it sat on the tributaries of the Minanter. It was where other Free Marcher cities like Ansburg and Starkhaven received most of their exported goods. And where their supply lines rose. The Minanter was the veins running through the body of the Northern Marchers, and Wycome was it’s beating heart. 

Seeing it so barren was unsettling. It had been a couple of years since Revas had been in the area when he helped escort the artisans trading with the merchants outside the city. At this time of year, the delta should be alive and vibrant, with the road full of people and the fields being worked. There was was nothing here but gulls eating their fill of worms from the ground..

“I don’t know what to make of this abandonment,” Aneth’ail said quietly next to him, the same uneasiness troubling Revas eating away at The Hand as well, “Has the plague infecting the humans really caused all this?”

“Not sure. It could be an ambush,” Revas replied , “But this is a lot of work for an ambush. Closing off the road, cutting off trade, leaving the fields empty...this hurts the city more than any of us.”

“Yes,” The Hand agreed.

The gulls’ cries, the flowing water of the tributary, and the faraway roar of the ocean were the only sounds that filled the air now. They were getting closer to their destination, but no closer to any answers.

“It wasn’t like this when we left,” the leader of the refugees, Sal, spoke up. He had insisted on coming along on this campaign –along with several others– despite the danger of the situation, “There were still people out. Everything was still sorta normal. It was only the alienage they were trampling on. What is this?”

“You would know more than us,” Aneth’ail responded tersely, “I find it hard to believe the entire city of Wycome up and left in the four days since you arrived at Lavellan’s camp.”

“What? You think I’m settin’ up some kind of trap or something?” Sal snapped at The Hand, “Listen real close, son, ‘cause I’m only going to explain it once…”

Revas clenched his jaw and his fist, not amused with his tone. By the sudden, jolting sensation of ozone around him, it seemed like Aneth’ail wasn’t fond of it either. Sal ignored the tension –or didn’t sense it– and continued.

“You see that there?” he pointed at the center of Wycome, only a few miles away, “That’s my home. Been my home since I was a tot. Where my mother ran off, where my pa left too, and where I learned everything there is to know about livin’ my life. I spent time away, but she always called me back. So trust me when I say I was pretty damn _desperate_ to invite a bunch of high ‘n’ mighty gas bags _like you_ to help me save it!”

Revas exchanged a look with Aneth, brief but easy to decipher. _If he gets much louder, it’ll make the hunters wary_. Sal ignored their concerned glances.

“You Dalish mean shit to me,” he went on, “Hiding in your forests and only coming out when you wanna trade with humans while the rest of us work to make this city run. It’s not ours, but it’s _ours_. So either you stop gawkin’ at the empty scenery and you come help us like you said you would, or you let me and my friends here go so we can at least die protecting the place we built with bare hands!”

“We won’t let you take on the humans alone. I made a vow, and I will see it through.”

Elain pushed made her way to the front of the line of the hunters, her Mantle heavy on her shoulders, and the sweat from the burden making her hair stick to her temples.

“Is there a reason we’re stopped?” she asked Revas sharply once she made it to the head of the warband.

“Yeah. It’s called _scouting_. Maybe you’ve heard of it,” he answered her shortly.

“I don’t need the sarcasm,” she brushed him off with a wave of her hand, “The Ethinan are being too cautious. The delta is empty. We should press forward while we can.”

“That’s not a good idea, Maiden,” Aneth’ail responded, “There’s something amiss here. The closer we get to the city, the more magical energy I feel. It’s subtle, but definitely there. We need to tread carefully.”

“All the more reason to move. The city elves are in the middle of whatever is unsettling you. Their lives are at stake,” she argued back. 

Revas rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. Elain had no vested interest in the city elves’ lives. It was all a ruse, a game she played to win over the refugees and to win over hunters in both Lavellan and Diceni by leading an assault. Stopping just meant less time between her grand schemes for heroic battle and when Paeris finally caught up. She was afraid of her victory being lost in the maelstrom if he followed them and arrived in time to engage. 

He was sick of it. Sick of her blatant disregard for the safety of the hunters, of the Ethinan, of herself. She should never have come in the first place. He could’ve handled this alone. All she was doing was making a spectacle. Her actions stopped being about preserving them and became about preserving _her._ It made Revas resentful, but his anger burned inside him quietly. He wouldn’t show division between now that he was leading the hunters into this. They had to be a united front to make this work.

“We’re no good to them if we’re killed in an ambush,” he answered her argument calmly, “So be patient and let the Ethinan do their job.”

Elain huffed at his words, then straightened her shoulders and looked to Sal, “I apologize that my Banal’ras is not taking this situation with the weight it’s due. We’ll see to this ourselves.”

Without another word, she began walking swiftly ahead on the main road, not taking any time to observe her surroundings or look for any dangers. She walked as if she owned the road, and had no fear whatsoever of the trap she might be walking into. He felt his rage bubbling up from his stomach, eating at his throat, burning his lungs. Revas wanted to scream at her to stop, but Sal took her lead, and he and other hunters and refugees alike followed obediently. Aneth’ail merely sighed, then followed closely behind. 

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath as he turned to one of the hunters nearby, “Go tell Warlord Threlen and Keeper Deshanna we’re moving. Have them bring up the rear.”

The hunter nodded and took off with his orders, kicking up some mud as he did so. It splattered on the hem of Revas’ cloak. Just another thing to shit on him today. He jogged and caught up with Elain, slowingto a walk just behind her, too angry to do anything but stare at the back of her head and brood. She was jeopardizing lives and the operation for the sake of her pride, something she would normally demote and transfer anyone else for. But the rules didn’t apply to Elain, it seemed. She could just stride down an empty road, eight months pregnant, making herself and her warband targets for violence, so long as it suited her. 

They walked in silence for another hour, the entire band of hunters winding slowly along with the main road, curving around the tributary of the Minanter, trying to avoid detection, though it did little good. They walked with the combined forces of the Diceni and Lavellan, in broad daylight, on a usually busy path. But in the time Elain impatiently forged forward, they still hadn’t encountered any patrols. Or any farmers. Or anyone. 

The city was less than an hour away. Without a plan, there was no doubt they’d be walking into something they couldn’t handle. None of this was right. Each step made the pit in Revas’ stomach knot even tighter.

He tried to clear his mind of his sour mood so he could think clearly, but it was a useless endeavor. That resolution would have to come later. For the time being, he just needed a plan of action. He grabbed Elain gently by the arm, and slowed her to a stop. 

“I need to talk to you, Maiden,” he told her, “Alone.”

She looked down on his hand gripping her in with her brow furrowed, but nodded at his request. Elain ordered the hunters to keep moving, and she guided him off the road. The grass was muddy and wet, and their feet sank into it as they stepped away from the procession. She stopped and faced him, her arms crossed over each other and her lips forming a tight line as she waiting for him to explain his disruption.

“We can’t just march into Wycome without a plan. No matter what you think, we’re not a standing army that can stand against their guards in open battle,” he lectured her quietly. 

“Do you believe I would just lead my hunters into this city without some kind of plan of action?” she whispered harshly, “How little you must think of me, Banal’ras!”

He grit his teeth together, “What am I supposed to think? You’ve undermined me at turn, and now we’re marching out in the open, straight into the unknown, because you can’t let up on the chance of your brother catching up with us. Your ego is clouding your judgment.”

Elain’s face turned to a cold stone, her eyes set on him shrewdly and her lips pursed. He had threw the accusations at her too soon, and now she was already set on shutting down to his arguments. A misstep on his part, but a huge mistake to not listen to reason on her part.

“These elves need our help, and I vowed to do so. I know you don’t want me to be here because you’ve gotten used to not taking my orders these last few months--”

“I don’t want you here because you could _have our child any day now, Elain!_ ” he interrupted her, his voice raised louder than he intended. He took a breath to calm himself and lowered his volume, “This is dangerous. It’s not a game, and you can’t keep putting everyone in harm’s way as if it is.”

“You truly believe I’d risk the lives of our kin for the sake of my ego?” she asked him incredulously, her own voice rising in her irritation. She turned around and faced the city, gesturing widely with her hand towards it, “Somewhere in there, is Captain Donovan. Somewhere, just a few miles from where we’re standing, is the man who is responsible for the _deaths_ of our people; deaths you saw firsthand. It pains me to see your own pride is so diminished that you wouldn’t want to storm the city gates for his head. Have the mundane duties Den punished you with laid you so low that you stopped caring about that?”

Revas grabbed her shoulder and turned her back towards him harshly, forcing her to look at him. He closed the space between them, his face in hers, so close he could feel her breath. It was pitched and heavy with anger as it exited her nostrils. 

“Don’t you _dare_ accuse me of not caring about that,” his voice was low but not calm anymore. She had crossed a line with him, “I did see it firsthand. I gave orders that led them to that death. I live with that everyday while you sit comfortably in your Mantle, sending everyone into danger for your glory. I care more than you could ever _dream_ of. So don’t think for a moment I won’t-----”

“ _EVIN!_ ”

Their argument was interrupted by a loud cry that came from the front of the procession, followed by a few people breaking away and running across a nearby field. It was the refugees making a dash to a farm near the main road. Without waiting for Elain to give him orders, Revas took off after them, sprinting to catch up. He waved to several hunters in the line to follow, and he heard their feet plopping in the mud behind him. They gave chase to the refugees who were jumping and climbing over a small wooden boundary fence, one of them tripping and knocking a log off the posts with him. Revas jumped over it with ease just a few seconds behind them, gaining ground against them fast. 

But once over the fence, he saw them all stopping and gathering round in a circle, with someone in the center. He slowed his sprint to a brisk walk, and he pushed aside the refugees to find the cause of the commotion. 

Sal stood in the middle of the chattering group, hugging an older elf holding a wooden hoe. His clothes were covered in dirt and his brow in sweat. He had been working the field.

“Evin, what happened, what happened?” Sal asked the older elf desperately, grasping his shoulders, “Where is everyone?”

Revas stopped and kept his distance, waving the hunters who followed him to do the same. This was the first person they had seen since entering the tributaries; he’d do well to let Sal get information out of him. 

Evin, the older elf, shook Sal’s hands off him and leaned on his hoe, “The Guild said you went ta’ get help,” the wizened face fell on Revas and his hunters, “Didna think you’d get some of those wild men. Eh, help is help though, I suppose.”

“Yeah, we got help Evin, but somethin’s up. What happened?” 

“Not too sure,” Evin chewed on the inside of his lip as he spoke, like halla on its cud, “I been stayin’ out of the city fer a good week now. Ain’t nothin’ good goin’ on in there.”

“Like what, Evin? You gotta tell us,” Sal pressed him. 

The old man shrugged, “Some weird noises, loud bangs, lights comin’ outta nowheres. Lotsa stuff. So others are stayin’ away too. Bunch of the shem homesteaders and their servants hidin’ in the Chantry down the road. Not me though. I’ll keep workin’ ‘till they come an’ bury my bones.”

Sal looked up from the old man and to Revas, “We gotta get to the Chantry.”

He hated to agree, but he was right. This was the first person they’d seen, but he didn’t have the information they needed. If they could get to the Chantry though, the people hiding might have a better picture of the city for them. He nodded to Sal, and turned around to head back to the main road. He heard him continue to try to get more information out of the older elf, but he doubted it would do any good. Revas would focus on getting Aneth’ail and Elain debriefed and making sure the path ahead would be clear. He still didn’t trust this, and an old farmhand didn’t make him feel any better about it. 

What choice did they have, though? Nothing else had come up. He wanted a plan of action, an idea of how to move forward, and it just landed on his lap like a gift from the gods. As he looked down the road to see the Chantry sun symbol molded in wrought iron standing atop an old, wooden building, he wished it had just been a gift from his gods instead. 

\-------

“When we get inside, allow me to speak on our behalf,” Elain had ordered them as a small group approached the Chantry building. The doors were painted red at one point, but was now peeling and cracking, weathered by time and the nearby sea. It was probably not as well maintained as the one inside the city proper. Small ones like these were meant for the farmers and travelers on the road; not the nobles living in their richly decorated homes within Wycome’s walls. Revas had seen this building only once before while escorting a small caravan of Lavellan’s artisans to the merchant stalls outside the city. He hadn’t given it a second thought at the time. 

“We should allow Sal to do much of the talking,” Deshanna reminded Elain gently, “This is his home and these are his fellow city men. He can soothe more fears than we could, with our unsanctioned magic and weapons.”

Elain bit her lip and stared up at the sky as she reflected on the Keeper’s words, then brought her chin back down, “Your right. They won’t be as willing to speak to us as they would one of their own; elf or not.”

“That’s true,” Aneth’ail interjected, “Just keep in mind we need a safe, secure way into the city. As long as he can get us that…”

“You don’t have to talk like I can’t hear ya,” Sal said grumpily, “I’ll get it outta them, don’t you worry about that.”

They walked up to the faded door silently and heard voices coming from the inside. The older farmhand hadn’t been lying; there were definitely people in there. Whether or not it was a trap was still up for debate. With a great heave, Revas and Aneth’ail pushed the Chantry’s doors open, letting the late afternoon sun flood the inside of the dark church. 

The eyes that stared back from inside were full of fear and dread, both human and elf. They wore peasants clothes, their faces covered in soot and dirt. This is where the farmers and field workers had fled to. There were quiet cries and gasps among them at the doors opening, and from the back of the high-ceilinged room, Revas could hear someone chanting a prayer. The entire room was choking with the smoke from burning candles and incense, and it made his eyes sting. He didn’t know how the inhabitants didn’t suffocate. 

“Who...who goes there?” a timid voice called out.

“It’s Sal! Owner of the Whale’s Eye over in the alienage on Carnation Street! I brought some help with me,” Sal answered and walked inside the dim sanctuary. The small group followed him, making sure they were slow and calm, so as not to scare off the terrified people cowering behind wooden benches and stone pillars. 

“Oh, thank the Maker’s hairy sack for that.”

It was a different voice, one coming from an elf towards the center of the room. She stood up fully from behind one of the pew benches, and dusted her clothes off with her hands. She wasn’t wearing the peasant clothes and filth like the others; there were well made leathers instead, with a crossbow strapped to her back and bolts hanging off a fine leather belt on waist. This woman was definitely not one of the farmhands..

“Rin?” Sal squinted at the woman and made his way towards her, “Is that you?”

“In the flesh! Well, at least for now,” the woman, Rin, smiled widely, and walked towards Sal with an easy stride, “Glad you brought the Dalish with you. Two birds with one stone.”

Sal gave her a friendly slap on shoulder, making her quirk a brow at him, “Thank the Maker you’re here! Now I can finally get some damned answers!”

“What do you mean?” she turned her head around towards the cowering homesteaders, “Oh, you mean those guys? Fuck if I know about them. I was just here taking a nap.”

“Don’t pull this shit on me now, Rin. This is serious,” Sal was exasperated with her, the whole situation, and he wasn’t good at hiding it. 

“Alright, alright,” she rose her hands up in surrender to his frustration, “Some heavy fire coming from the city last night scared these guys. They’ve been hiding in here from any fighting that might pour out.”

“And the merchants?”

“Locked up in Wycome’s lower districts, ‘ _for their own good’._ Laborers haven’t really gotten that plague going around, so they’ve been isolating themselves,” she explained, “It’s been mostly the dock managers, property owners, nobles. You know...all those rich nug-eaters.”

“What about the alienage?” Sal asked her nervously. 

“What about it?”

“Andraste’s ass on the spitfire Rin!! WHAT DO YOU THINK!” he yelled back at her.

His face turned as red at a beet, and Revas couldn’t stop himself from snorting out a laugh. It was amusing how short this flat ear’s fuse was. Elain didn’t find it nearly as amusing though, and stepped in between the two. 

“We need a way into the city; recon on the situation inside can come later. Do any of you know a way?” she raised her voice towards the end, and it permeated through large room, bouncing off the high ceiling. 

No one spoke. They were either too scared or too distrustful and he didn’t blame them. Revas doubted the rulers of the city would treat the human peasant who allowed the Dalish inside fairly. These were just the scared farmhands and fieldworkers trying to escape whatever was going on in the city, and they barged in their sacred place armed to the teeth. None of them were going to talk.

The silence went on for a few heartbeats before this Rin started rolling on her heels, fidgeting in her place. 

“So, uh…” she started, looking at the ceiling instead of anyone in the room, “I might know the way into the city?”

“For the love of...just spill it, Rin. Why are you here?” Sal said sourly. 

She climbed up on the back of one of the wooden pews and sat there, heaving in a great sigh as she did, “So it’s like this. I was hired to get you into the city anyways. They needed a smuggler who knew the Marcher underground, and I’ve been in and out of every rathole here a million times. So here I am, at your disposal.”

“Then why were you hiding in a Chantry?” Elain asked her. He couldn’t believe she was taking this seriously.

“You needed information right? So, I stick around where the information is, and eventually you’ll stumble on me. Took you long enough though. There’s no good food here. I had to eat week old bread and what I think was a leg of a rat while I was waiting around,” she rambled on, “At least, I hope it was a rat.”

“Get to the point,” Elain commanded her coldly. 

Rin shrugged dramatically, “Yeesh! Are all you Dalish so impatient?”

“Yes,” Aneth’ail responded to her, his tone just as cold as the Maiden’s, “We have a city to save, so if you don’t mind?”

“Right, right. Fate of the alienage and all that. Gotta be fast!” she replied rapidly, her words now spilling out, “Long and short: I’m a smuggler hired by the Inquisition to get you in. Here’s a letter,” she pulled a piece of rolled parchment out of her belt and flung it at Elain, “Supposed to go to a Keeper but hell if I can tell the difference. I get you in, then I get my ass out with a bag full of gold. Make sense now?”

Elain unrolled the parchment and glanced over it quickly before handing it off to him, “It’s from Sar’een. What do you think?”

_Aneth Ara,_

_I hope this missive finds you well. I heard your distress from all the way in the Frostbacks, and have answered your call to aid the best I can. I know you will have already set out to save our cousins from an unjust end. You are, after all, sworn to the Goddess to do so. In your mission, I have provided an escort into the city: Rinlyra of Denerim. She will also show you a supply cache of weapons. City elves are restricted from having weapons, but if you arm them, they may be able to protect themselves._

_I have done what I can for the moment. I pray to Andruil that the_ Duke of Wycome _sees reason and_ ends this purging.

_Good Hunting, Maiden._

_Inquisitor Lavellan_

“She sent this smuggler to get us into the city and to arm the alienage,” he said once he read over the missive, “But are we sure this is Sar’een?”

“It’s the Inquisition’s seal,” she pointed out, “It’s her.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told you?” Rin cut in impatiently as she hopped off the pew, “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a mission to complete. Can’t collect all that Chantry gold without it, now can I?”

Elain tucked the missive inside her belt and stepped aside for Rin to move through, “Lead on.”

The group followed the smuggler back into the twilight evening outside. She stopped abruptly though when she saw the eyes of a whole contingent of hunters fall on her at once. Deshanna didn’t want to scare the shems in the church, but they couldn’t just go unprotected. He smiled when he saw Rin’s fingers twitch at her sides. Revas liked being the one catching people off-guard for once. 

“Well. Didn’t realize you’d be bringing the whole clan,” she said nervously, “Hope you all can fit in the Catacombs.”

“Really? That’s how you’re going to get us in?!” Sal’s voice rose in panic, “By the hair on a dog lord’s ASS Rin!”

“What?” she asked innocently, “Trust me, you don’t wanna be seen going in. Sure, it’s a little dirty, has lots of bones, but…”

“But it’s full of Carta! Not even the Thieves Guild uses the Catacombs anymore now that those bastards dug themselves in!”

“Oh, the Cadash boys? Don’t worry about it. I work for their boss. As long as Adamantia gets her cut, we’re good,” she explained as if it was the easiest thing in the world to understand. 

“Someone just punch me and wake me up from this nightmare,” Sal muttered as he pressed his palm to his forehead. 

“What are the Catacombs?” Elain asked her. 

“Under the city. Old collapsed sewer system that used to dump in the docks. Now, uh, smugglers...like me...use them. But it’s totally safe! Mostly!”

“We’ll talk about that ‘ _mostly’_ in the near future. For now, I need to have a word with my, Banal’ras,” she gave him a sharp glance and pointed her chin towards the far side of the chantry, then began to walk in that direction. He followed her closely, keeping one ear open for the orders Aneth’ail was giving to round the hunters up. This was all too convenient. Revas didn’t like it. 

The warband started pulling together again as they moved away from them, ready to march again, and eager for a fight. He doubted their thirst would be quenched tonight. Even if they got in the city, they still didn’t have a plan. 

“Did you get the hidden meaning in her letter?” Elain finally asked once they were out of earshot of the warband. She wrapped the Mantle around her shoulders tighter as the cold spring night started to fall.

“No?” he responded truthfully, “It was pretty straightforward to me. Here’s a smuggler. Here’s some weapons. Good luck.”

“You don’t find it odd she knew we’d be here? That she knew we’d need additional weapons? That we’d need a way inside the city?” she whispered to him, “I think she has more planned than she lets on.”

“ _Dor’len_? Plotting? You’ve got to be kidding,” he laughed at the mere thought of it. Sar’een was a mage and kind of smart, but he wouldn’t call her shrewd.

“Don’t underestimate her,” Elain warned him lowly, “She’s been away from her people for over a year now. Many things could have changed. I don’t know what she’s planning, but she is putting tools in our hands to do her bidding.”

“Yeah, sure. And are we going to fall into her trap?” Revas teased her, the idea of Sar’een being some political schemer amusing him more than it should have. She creased her brow and frowned at him.

“Probably. We have no choice in the matter, but I doubt she would do something to purposefully sabotage us,” she said quietly, “We are still her family.”

Towards the road, he heard Sal yelling again, at who knows what. He rolled his eyes and let his head rest against the cold stone of the chantry walls with a sigh. This wasn’t going to be like Minanter. That was a battle he’d tell his kid about. This is just a nuisance. 

“Are you still angry with me?” she asked him softly while they waited for the hunters to complete their formation. 

“Yeah,” he affirmed, though he was too tired to get worked up about it now. She reached out and interlaced her fingers in between his.

“I’m not sorry for doing what I had to. But I am sorry for undermining your position. The clan needs to see you stronger than I’m letting you be right now.”

He dropped her hand and pushed off the side of the building without another word, then made his way back to the warband. It was always about her. In the best ways sometimes, but in the worst ways even more. He didn’t expect her to change. He couldn’t. 

“Revas,” she had called after him quietly, but he just ignored her.

He had a mission to complete, and he couldn’t let the hurt get in the way anymore. 

 

 

 

 


	28. Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dalish warband moves through the Catacombs under Wycome in a race against time, but run into a dangerous obstacle along the way.

Few things disgusted Revas more than dirty water. Water running down walls, brown from rust and filth, touching his hands or feet or face, was nearly enough to make him gag. It all stemmed back to a cave he had explored when he was just a kid, not even used to using a bow yet. 

It had been a hunt for shemlen treasure, hidden within the half sunken cove near Lavellan’s camp. He had brazenly decided to go in it by himself, with little regard for smugglers or thieves that might be inside. In fact, he had almost hope to encounter them, so he could prove how strong and brave he was. Revas had brought his little knife, the practice bow from the training grounds, and two arrows he had stolen from his father. Nothing would scare him away from claiming the gold that he was certain was there. 

The cave had been darker than he expected. The walls were wet with dripping water, and the puddles on the ground were black and slimy. He couldn't see into the water, and it unnerved him. The puddles were stagnant and deep, and looked as if they would swallow him up if he were to wade through them. They reminded him of his grandfather’s eyes when the clan had sung him off into the Beyond, but he couldn’t quite place with his adolescent mind why. He avoided stepping in them as best he could, growing fearful of what lurked underneath their depths. 

But the fear wouldn't leave, and as the passage grew narrower and narrower in his descent, he clung to the dripping walls, feeling the gravely mixture of rock and water rubbing against his skin. It made him feel dirty, and even more so, lost. There was no fresh air of the mountains or long sights of the plains in here. It was all dark, dark, dark. 

The growing terror that rose in his gut culminated when he swore he saw something moving in the depths of the puddles. Surely some monster or demon out to eat him and crunch his bones. No gold was worth the fear welling up in his little heart, so he made his way back out into the real world as quickly as he could, hearing a subtle splashing behind him, certainly the creature following him out. 

When he returned to daylight, he was covered in filthy water, his pants sopping wet and his shirt torn from where it caught on the rock face of the cave as he made his escape. But there was no monster following him anymore. He was safe, and the shining sun protected him from whatever was following him from crawling out of it's den. There was a sense of fearlessness that came with that, and he prowled in front of the cave, daring the phantom creature to try to make a meal out of him. 

When he finally returned home, his mother had scolded him for his adventure, his father shrugged at his blooming recklessness, and Sorn and Elain teased him for not finding the treasure he had been searching for in the cave. He was mad and vowed to return and get the gold, but he never did. Unless he found a way to take the sun with him, he wouldn't chance seeing his monster again. 

The Catacombs of Wycome were worse than that old cave ever was. The stagnant water here was much deeper and pitch black. He couldn’t see any part of his legs as he waded through it. Bits and pieces of object brushed up against him too as he walked; crumbled rubble or refuse long tossed into these old tunnels. And as an entire warband trekked through the sludge, it stirred even more debris beneath the water. 

They no longer even tried to be quiet. The Catacombs were empty on the dockside of the city. Not even smugglers were risking coming in to get the plague going around. Once again, a little too perfectly planned for Revas’ liking though. 

“Not too much longer,” Rin assured the warband leaders from her head position, flipping her red hair over her shoulder as if they were on a short hike in the woods and were in no danger at all. Certainly didn’t lend any credence to this not being a trap. 

“How much longer is ‘ _not too much_ ’?” Elain asked impatiently. She was struggling to get through the sewers. The standing water nearly came up to her knees, and she had been on her feet for hours. By the way her hair and skin were soaked in sweat, and by her leaning heavily on the Keeper for support, it was obviously taking its toll. 

“Can’t give you a definite time. Depends on if we run into anything,” Rin responded, “But another mile or so ‘till we reach the area that will get us into the alienage.” 

“Good,” she replied with a huff. His annoyance at her insistence on coming rose up again, but he let out a deep breath and attempted to let it go. What was done was done. He couldn’t change it now. So long as she didn’t push her way into heavy fighting, he could live with it. It helped, a little. 

“Why do they call this place the Catacombs?” Aneth’ail asked no one in particular as he looked at the cracked masonry of the ceiling of the tunnel. 

Sal answered him, “It’s the ruins of the old city that got destroyed during the Fourth Blight. Bones of the Wycome from before darkness came. Got repurposed as a sewer after a while, but now only smugglers and criminals use it.” 

“And what of actual bones here? Are there bodies buried in these passages?” Aneth continued to gaze keenly on the walls of the long passageway. 

“I suppose there might be bodies here. Wouldn’t call them ‘ _buried_ ’ though. More like...dumped,” Sal said bleakly, “This ain’t a place you put people you want to remember.” 

“Hmmm,” Aneth’ail murmured his reply. He was concentrating on something, and it was making Revas’ skin form goosebumps. 

“Something wrong?” he asked him. Aneth’s face creased into a frown and his ears twitched. 

“Do you feel it too, Keeper?” 

Deshanna paused momentarily, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, and the same concerned frown washed over her face. 

“Yes, there is definitely something warping the Veil in this place. If there was as much death here during the fourth blight as as I would assume there was, it would not surprise me,” she said, “Those things are never truly left to rest.” 

“This feels different,” he mused on her words, “I’ve seen spirits inhabiting dead bodies in long-forgotten battlefields. The Silent Plains are full of them. Something here feels...artificial. We should try to get out of here as quickly as possible while we can.” 

“No one’s gonna argue that, son,” Sal interjected, “Catacombs always gave me the creeps.” 

“I’m not your son,” Aneth responded frankly, but he still stared at the cavern walls in worry. There was a cord of tension running through him, pulling and pulling, just waiting to snap. Despite being Diceni, The Hand wasn’t used to dealing with people who weren’t Dalish, and the magical issues seemed to be making his patience thin as well. Revas hoped there wouldn’t be a fight. The relationship between the Diceni hunters and Lavellan’s was already strained without him having to take out The Hand of Vengeance if he lost his temper. Nevermind that he didn’t know if he actually could. 

They moved in slowly, like a snake winding its way through a burrow, the sloshing of the water under their feet preventing the warband from sneaking up on anything. This was feeling less and less like a Dalish operation and more like an actual battle formation. It made Revas antsy. He didn’t like being this open, this exposed. It put the hunters on edge too. Their advantage had always been their knowledge of the territory, their element of surprise. This was a whole new world. 

“Look up there,” Rin stopped at the front of the procession and pointed towards on of the many side passages in the honeycombed caverns, “That’s the last tunnel we have to go through. It’ll lead us into the alienage.” 

“Now I know I don’t come down here often, but I don’t remember this part of the Catacombs,” Sal commented. 

“Of course you don’t,” she said flippantly, “Smuggler’s trails have to be hard to track. I wouldn’t take an easy way in where residents might be storing their dirty shirts. Besides, Wycome’s guards are probably swimming in the more common areas. Unless you wanted to fight them in a watery, gross sewer? 

Sal huffed at her remark but didn’t respond. Revas thanked the gods for that. He needed it to be quiet, or at least as quiet as it could be. There could be an ambush or some kind of maneuver to route them. They hadn’t run into any Carta dwarves either, which made things even worse.The Catacombs were living up to their names; nothing seemed to be there but the bones of Wycome. 

The warband wound it’s way into the tunnel that supposedly let to the alienage, and it was narrower than the main sewer line. The water seemed to be darker there as well, even more stagnant, as if it had been sitting there for a century undisturbed. The smell of it hit their nostrils aggressively, and he heard Elain choking slightly on the bile likely rising in her throat. He fought to keep his own stomach settled at things inside the water brushing against his calves. 

“How much further?” Aneth’ail asked suddenly. He pulled magical energy against him suddenly, a barrier that was as reflexive as putting up a shield. 

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know, another twenty minutes?” Rin replied absently as she waded through the deepening water. 

“No,” he said quietly, once more looking at the walls, “We have to move faster. This place isn’t safe.” 

“The Veil does seem thin here. Thinner than I would expect---,” Deshanna started, but was interrupted by a loud shriek. It startled the warband, and made the refugees jump in fear. 

“ _At ready_!” Revas shouted to his hunters and drew his own bow. Behind him, he heard Warlord Threlen shouting orders from the rear flank. They must have heard it too. 

“What was it?” Elain asked Aneth’ail quietly as the hunters formed rank around her. 

“Nothing of this world,” he responded ominously, “Stay close to your Keeper. She can keep barriers cast on you…” 

Aneth’ail trailed off when a hunter seemingly tripped in the water, making a loud splash and thrashing in the putrid pond beneath their feet. That wasn’t right either. The hunter gargled the water and screamed in panic as he did so, slapping his arms desperately on the surface of the water. Hunters in Lavellan knew how to swim. Every last one. 

“Grab him!” Revas yelled, the hunters nearest to the drowning one reached down to help him out. 

Their hands did not reach him in time, and he was violently pulled into the inscrutable depths of black waters, only the air from his lungs escaping. The hunters fumbled desperately to pull him back up, but there seemed to be a struggle, as if something was pulling him back, some dark undertow. More hunters lunged for him, and pulled him with all their might; they circled around him and pulled and pulled and pulled, until he finally breached, his armor slipping off, his eyes wide in horror, and…. 

And the bloated hands of a corpse gripping him, trying to pull him back in. It’s dead, glassy eyes were full of fury and terror, possessed by something not of the waking world. The hunter screamed and fought, and Revas drew his arrow back and let it fly towards the corpse’s rotting face. The arrow struck, knocking the corpse backwards into the blackness, and the hunter scrambled away from its clutches in a mortified panic. The other hunters went from being on edge to being ready to fight their way out. 

Not a moment too soon, either. 

They rose in a swarm. Bodies --mutilated and decomposing-- came up from the pools underneath them in a roar, their lipless mouths groaning in torment, and their stark white teeth gleaming against putrid blackness of their rotting glesh. Arrows flew immediately, barely drawn from the quiver before they were leaving the bow, and some of the corpses fell as quickly as they rose up. But they were everywhere. Right within the ranks of the hunters, and more and more began to crawl their way out of the once stagnant depths. 

Revas suddenly realized all the pieces of debris that had been rubbing against them under the water was not junk thrown in an old tunnel haphazardly. There were dozens and dozens of these bodies, each grotesque in their putrefaction, their eyes glowing, and their rotting insides spilling into the groundwater. He let arrow after arrow loose on them, but he not as many as he could. They were in close quarters, packed together in their procession through these rank tunnels, and a misfired shot could be fatal. 

“Oh Maker,” Sal cried fearfully as he fought off the clutching, grasping undead, “There’s so many of them! What are they doing here?!” 

Aneth’ail ignored his questions and began to push the hunters forward, “We have to get out of the water, there’s more coming!”

He pointed towards the far end of the procession, his finger falling on the undead rising from the ground they had already treaded. As they groaned and wailed in the darkness, something lighter formed itself in the center of the small hoard, as if by magic. It was tall, with long limbs and sharp claws, and it seemed to glow from within. It turned its attention towards to fleeing hunters, and hunching over like an animal, it screamed. 

It was like nothing he had heard before. Penetrating and piercing and far away all at once. The scream was deafening and terrible, and it made Revas’ head swim with pain. Other hunters felt is keenly as well, and brought their hands to their ears, desperately trying to block the ungodly sound. 

“IT’S A DEMON! _WE HAVE TO MOVE!_ ” Warlord Threlen barked the command to the hunters closer to the demon, but it’s maddening cries made it hard to hear. 

“Get us out of here Rin!” he heard Elain order from the front of the fleeing warband.

“You think I’m not trying!” the smuggler shouted back, even her voice rising in fear as she struggled to run through the ever deepening water. 

“There’s too many to handle on our own,” Aneth’ail’s voice rose above the chaos that was now forming as the back ranks caught up with the front, nearly mowing them down to get away from the demon that was screaming in pursuit., “We need to get out of the water!”

“That I can do!” Rin said assuredly. She veered out towards a reservoir tunnel just to the left of their current path, climbing up and over the elevated ledge leading into it. Aneth’ail lifted Elain behind her, then Deshanna, before moving back to allow more up.

The front of the procession followed suit, desperately grasping the old masonry and pulling themselves up to elevated ground. Revas motioned more of the hunters up as well while firing off arrows into the undead that were obstructing their escape. The rear was quickly pulling up, but so was the undead hoard behind them, the demon lumbering slowly along with them. It seemed content to watch it’s possessed corpses attempt to swarm, but there were less and less of them to watch now. It would not stay content for long. 

“Move move MOVE!” he shouted at them, but he should’ve kept his mouth shut, because the entire atmosphere of the forgotten tunnel seemed to shift, and he felt an otherworldly hand suddenly around his neck. 

The demon had shifted the Veil, warping in and out until it made it’s way from the back of the procession to the very front, and it’s hand on Revas’ throat was as cold as Death itself. He could nearly feel his bones freezing, and his legs kicked wildly as the demon lifted his entire body off the ground. His hands scratched and pulled at the demon’s claws, trying desperately to get it to release it’s grip, but he felt the will sapping from him as he looked on the demon’s face. 

It was long and grotesque and full of black teeth and black bitumen dripping between them and black smoke swirling around that gaping maw, its deathly breath manifested, and it’s beady, glassy black eyes twitched as it stared back at Revas. The melee of the fleeing warband slowly became quiet, and all he could see was his terror. It was real and painful, and it was his own Death, glaring back at him as he foolishly tried to face it. His breath no longer came, his lungs as hard as ice, and the screeching call of the demon filled every other part of him. He could not face it, could not face that great Beyond. He would shatter. He would be dust. 

The spell was broken when the demon released him, and he plummeted back into the black waters. His lungs were no longer frozen, but instead, inhaled the decaying liquid. He pushed himself up to the surface and coughed so hard, he felt as if he’d never breathe again. He vomited the water up, spilling it back out, and took deep gulps of air. He was alive. He wondered for how long.

“Revas! Get up here!” Elain yelled at him from the elevated reservoir, her bow in her hand and aimed at the demon, one of her arrows already planted in it’s neck. She had saved him.

He saw the last few hunters ascending the wall and scrambled up behind them. A sense of tranquility washed over him as if by magic, and as his breath came easier and the throbbing pain on his neck began to subside, he realized it _was_ magic. Deshanna was casting spells, energizing the waiting hunters in case the demon warped up to the reservoir. 

Warlord Threlen grunted as he followed up behind him, and when Revas pulled himself over the ledge, he immediately turned around to help Threlen over as well. But it would not last. The corpses were bunching up at the bottom of the stone ledge, piling on top of each other to climb up, while the demon was distracted by the hunters firing off arrows at it. It squealed and screamed, making Revas’ heart drop in fear again.

“Is that everyone?” Aneth’ail yelled over the maelstrom. 

“Yes!” Elain called back to him as her own arrows hit the creature. 

“Then stand back!”

Elain and Threlen urged the hunters and the refugees back, farther against the wall of the reservoir, and they dropped their bows quickly to follow the command. They packed themselves in tightly, some of them crying in fear and others in stony silence. Revas huddled at the front against Elain, trying his best to shield her should Aneth’ail’s magic backfire, and she buried her face in his chest. 

The Hand stood at the edge of the reservoir, kicking down the undead who attempted to breach the ledge, and trying to center himself as quickly as possible. And he _was_ quick. The same warping of the Veil Revas had felt in the demon’s grasp started to emanate around Aneth’ail, and the petrichor of a storm began to fill the air. Currents of electricity, small at first, began to arc around his body, covering him like a cloak. He moved, and the storm moved with him, bristling against the terrified mass of hunters, making Revas’ teeth chatter and his hair stand on end.

The magical energy filling the air rose and rose with each breath Aneth’ail took, and the sparks of electricity moved in it’s own, climbing up the stone walls and down towards the corpses. There were high-pitched wails when the magic hit the undead, but it was only the build-up. What Aneth’ail was capable of would be much worse.

When the electric surge seemed to reach a peak, as if The Hand was a vessel and the fluid filling him was overflowing, he directed the energy abruptly towards the stagnant water under the undead hoard. It left him with a loud crack, a thunderous echoing that penetrated the cavern and shook the walls, lighting up all the dark passages with a brilliant flash. Elain yelped as it did so, and he pulled her tighter against him.

The high-pitched wails were nothing compared to the deafening screams and burning flesh now. Smoke filled the cavern, invading their lungs, and it choked them with its pungency. Revas had smelled burning bodies before, but this was unlike anything he’d ever encountered. It was rotting ozone, vegetation left to decompose in the sun and liquify, punctuated with the lightning and rain of a storm. 

“Okay,” Aneth’ail said calmly, “It’s over.”

The tightly packed warband began to move away from each other, back down the reservoir towards the Hand. Surprisingly, Sal was at the head of those moving back out.

“What was that?” he asked Aneth’ail timidly as he looked down on the scorched flesh of the undead and the charred pile of ashes where the demon once stood.

“A demon possessing the dead in these sewers. I do not know how long it had been happening,” he responded truthfully.

“There were so many bodies,” Sal remarked unbelievingly, “So many. And they were fresh too. Still bloated and everything. What’s happening here?”

“Don’t know, don’t care!” Rin piped up from behind them, “If you’re looking for answers though, those are going to be above ground. Let’s keep moving.”

The smuggler hopped from the ledge of the reservoir back into the tunnel, dropping down on a pile of the charred corpses. She exclaimed her disgust at dirtying her shoes, but moved forward anyways as if nothing happened. The warband slowly followed, many of them still in shock from the sheer number of undead that rose from the depths below them. Revas himself still felt that ice touch of the demon on his neck as his boots splashed into the water again. 

It was not much further before they found an exit; a single ladder leading into the basement of a warehouse near the docks. It was a slow progression to the surface, but the memories of the black slime and enraged undead made the hunters move quicker than he could normally expect. He thanked Mythal silently for that. Revas didn’t want to stay a moment longer in that tomb either.

\---

The streets of the alienage were empty. As empty as the great purging scare twenty years ago. As empty as the time the Kirkwall chantry blew up. As empty as moment they found out the Inquisitor was an elf like them. 

There were only two occasions the streets would be empty. When they inhabitants were hiding in fear, or hiding their celebrations. They had learned long ago that humans sometimes looked for an excuse to come down and take whatever problems they had out on them, so they didn’t give them a reason. Keep your chin down, your nose out of everyone’s business, and go about your own. It kept Sal alive, kept his kids alive, kept his friends alive, kept them all safe. But he was beginning to understand how tenuous that safety was.

The Dalish and Sal’s acquaintances walked through the streets almost brazenly as they looked for signs of life, but not even a child's cry could be heard. The simple storefronts were boarded up, along with the dilapidated buildings that held the families living in the alienage. No eyes peered out of the windows, no thankful greetings called out to them, there was just...nothing.

Sal felt utter defeat wash over him as the warband's loud footsteps echoed through the empty streets. He hadn't made it in time. He had tried to save his people and came up short. He had failed. Again. 

Failure wasn't something new to him. It was as close and intimate as any lover he had ever taken to his bed. Failure whispered in his ears when he felt like things might be going right for once, and stroked his heart when he felt that he could escape it. But there was no escaping it for Sal. It was written on his soul. 

Fighting in Antiva was a failure. The bid for city recognition was a failure. Jossa's death was a failure. And now…

And now the pain and suffering inflicted on these people was on his head. He could've gone to Hercinia. Markham. Maker-damned Kirkwall. Someone would have helped. But he went to the Dalish, and now it was nothing but dust.

"So..." Rin started her asinine bantering and Sal already felt his blood pressure rising, "Seems a little...barren. Wasn't expectin' this. Any ideas?"

"There's has to be someone here," the Maiden spoke up, her sharp voice edging annoyed, "If they purged the alienage, there would be bodies. Blood. Looting. There's no evidence of any of that."

"She's right," the strange mage agreed with her. He was a bit stoic, but Sal couldn't argue with the power he had. That magic saved their asses back in the Catacombs, "I'm guessing more refugees fled the city and the ones that stayed are holding ground somewhere."

The mage turned towards Sal, "Where would they be?"

He wanted to scream that they were all dead and to let them rest in peace. To yell and cry and shout and stomp and punch until all the pent up anger he had for himself could get out. But the Maiden did have a point. There should be evidence. Something to say that people died here. Maybe there was hope yet.

"If anyone stayed, it'd be the Thieves Guild. They have bases all over the city," he looked over the seemingly abandoned buildings, trying to gauge where they would hole up, "They could be anywhere."

"You keep mentioning this Thieves Guild, lethallin," the Keeper said gently, "Tell us about them. Perhaps it will give us some insight on how to reach them."

He wished she'd stop using all those elf words on him. Sal didn't understand them, and it didn't make him feel any more comfortable around all these hunters and their weapons. 

"The Guild is the underbelly of the city. An elf-only organization. Dwarves have the Carta, humans have the Coterie, even the horned folks got their Vashoth companies," he explained to the Keeper, "Thieves Guilds are the elves way of makin' gold off the shems and givin' back to the alienage when they can. Some alienages got bigger Guilds, some none at all. Wycome's is pretty prominent since we're a port city. Any trade out over the sea comes through here, and they get stuff you can't get anywhere else. It's how I know Rin. She smuggles shit in for the Guild to sell on the docks."

"Wow, way to tell them my trade secrets," Rin muttered under her breath.

"They're too deep into this community to just up and leave it, even with mercs breathin' down their necks. They gotta be here," he tried to convince himself. 

"Where did they meet casually?" the Maiden asked, "They wouldn't want to draw Donovan's mercenaries to their home turf."

Of course. They wouldn't want to draw attention to their bases, but a casual meeting place was safe. All of them would know about it, and all of them would know every way in and out of it. And that kind of place could always be moved fast. He knew exactly where they were hiding.

"I'll be damned," he nearly whispered before grabbing Rin's arm, "C'mon. I know where they are."

"Whoa whoa! I know we're acquaintances and all, but can we not with the touching?" Rin protested as he pulled her down a side alley that would take them to Carnation Street. The Dalish dutifully followed, despite being wet and shaken from the trip in the Catacombs. Their footsteps against the worn cobblestone resonated down the alley, and he picked up his pace so as not to scare the Guild off.

He took a quick turn, then another, pulling Rin along with him, who started to protest less and move faster once she realized where he was taking her. Another corner, another dip into an alley, and then he found was he was looking for.

The sign to the Whale's Eye was still hanging, the rusted out hinges holding up the brass eye he got while pit fighting near the Rialto Bay. The front of the pub looked just as abandoned as the rest of the alienage, but he knew they did that on purpose. He dropped Rin's arm and bolted, running as fast as his old legs would carry him towards the heavy oak door allowing entrance to the ground level of the sprawling tenements above it. He slammed into the door, and of course it was boarded up and locked. But he didn't care. Sal had to see that someone was alive, someone was still fighting. Otherwise, it had all been for nothing, and the failure really was on him. 

He shoved his shoulder into the door, trying his hardest to break through whatever barricade they had put up on the other side. The door itself would barely budge; another thing he didn't care about as he continue to barrage it with hits. Sal grunted and heaved as he put all his damned weight into getting inside his pub, with little to show for it.

Until that blonde Dalish started slamming into the door too. 

Their efforts were counterproductive at first, but it wasn't long until they established an unspoken rhythm, both ramming into the door simultaneously to break off the hinges. It worked, and the door started to move. After only a couple more hits, the wood cracked and the hinges gave out, and a few hard kicks knocked it open completely.

Sal burst through the door to the inside of his tavern, and saw about fifty makeshift weapons fall on him at once. 

They were there. And they were alive. 


	29. Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llyn and Sellarin try to make their way to an Oasis to find Clan Abersher'al. The Dalish and the city elves find the source of corruption in Wycome.

“But we have money!”

The small market in the dusty village of Al’emin was overly crowded, overly hot, and of course, full of sand. Llyn was getting sick of sand. It clung to his clothes, to his food, to his hair...it even got stuck in his gums, making his teeth hurt from grinding on it. He remembered Revas telling him stories of how great the deserts of Northern Nevarra were, but he knew now that it was all some kind of joke.

No sane person could find this enjoyable.

"We don't serve elves," the merchant said gruffly to Llyn's charge, Sellarin. She was trying to get him to sell them some supplies for the desert, but the human wasn't budging.

She pulled out a leather pouch and jingled it in front of his face, "C'mon! Doesn't that gold sound good? Bet you could buy a lot of jewelry for your pretty daughter back there."

Sellarin pointed to the girl behind his stall playing with her dolls. They were rough and dirty, but their scraps of linen and tiny necklaces strung with dried desert flowers were well-loved otherwise. When the girl heard Sellarin talking about her, she looked away from her games and up towards her.

"You think I'm pretty?" she asked timidly. Her father mumbled some curse under his breath.

"As pretty as an embrium, pea. Now wouldn't you like your papae to get you a little charm to match your dolly's?" 

"Yes, but he doesn't like to trade for jewelry," the little girl said sadly. 

"Well, you're in luck!" Sellarin answered her cheerfully, squatting down towards the dusty, stone packed ground to address the girl directly, "I have enough money that your papae doesn't have to trade in jewelry. I can give it to him directly, and then he can buy that necklace for you for being such a sweet pea."

The little girl’s eyes lit up and glittered, full of the stars she wished on for all the baubles her father had never gotten her. She hopped off her place on the ground, and clung to her father's leg.

"Oh please Papa! I want a necklace so much! Just like my dolly has! Can I please please have it?!" the girl begged him, yanking on his dirty apron. 

"Sasha, enough!" he chastised her, but tears began to settle in the little girl's eyes, and her father's expression softened.

"Fine. What do you want?" 

Sellarin grinned widely, "Enough rations and water to last three days to get out to the Oasis."

He waved his hand in the air, "Pah! Should've known you knife-ear bastards would be heading there. At least you're paying for my goods this time instead of just taking them."

"We're not from around here," Llyn felt compelled to explain himself. He knew the desert clans raided human caravans for supplies when they had to, so he hoped separating himself from them would get him farther than not saying anything.

"Don't care where you're from," the human merchant snapped back, "Your supplies will be ready in an hour. Come back then."

Llyn sighed deeply and turned to walk away from the stall. The sun was nearly directly overhead now, and he felt like all his energy was being sapped away in the heat. 

"Let's get you to some shade," Sel pointed him towards the tall palms that stood in the middle of the small village, "You look as red as a beet."

"I'm fine," he muttered, but he didn't feel fine. He hated that damned sun.

"Well, we gotta wait anyways. Might as well do it where it's cooler," she responded lightly and led him towards the towering palms, "Not used to the desert, huh?"

"No," he replied tiredly, "I've never even been to these ones. Antivan deserts when I was really little, and the steppes as an escort when Elain visited The Hand a few years back. But nothing like this."

"Antivan deserts are pretty mild. It's the swamps you have to worry about," she said with a wink, “Almost lost my arm to a water drake there once. They hide in that dark, slimy green water and wait for some poor fool to get close enough to snap.”

“Why’d you stick your arm in the water then?” he asked as he leaned his weight against one of the tall palms. She was right, it was nicer in the shade.

“A baby had fallen in! Or a toddler, more like it. His little chubby legs slipped off the raft I was on, and I couldn’t just let him drown,” she said dramatically, “His poor mother was crying and I didn't even think! Just reached right into that mess and tried to pull him out."

"He was stuck though, on some submerged branch or something. His poor little foot entangled in that sludge. I stuck my other arm in and freed him, but not before feeling something scaly brush up against me. I'm pullin' this kid out, and next thing I know, _SNAP!!_ Water drake's jaws completely annihilated a log not even six inches from my arm. I'm grasping the kid as I fall back into the raft, praying that this thing didn't just tip it for a quick meal, all while kid's mother is wailing and trying to grab him from my arms. I stayed well down until I saw that thing's head go back under and swim away."

"Holy shit," he said, "I can't believe that."

"Yeah, it was pretty heroic," she boasted, "But you gotta do what you gotta do. For the children, yeah?"

"Yeah. But I meant I actually don't believe that," he replied as he kicked a stone from under his foot, "Lot's of problems with that story."

"Oh really?"

"Sure. First of all, water drakes are nocturnal, and Antivan clans don't go out on the swamps at night because of it. I doubt a mother would have her toddler on a raft at night," he started, listing off the issues with her story, "And two, rafts are for hunters only. The non-combatants in the swamps don't typically go out on the water unless they're moving between camps, and then they have sturdier means of travel. Another reason a mother wouldn't take her kid there. And three...well, Clan Banalderas and all the other clans make a point of having visiting clans use the back roads to travel. Keep newcomers off the water. When I went up there as an escort with the Maiden, even we didn't get on the rafts."

Sellarin crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the palm nearest to him, "And what makes you think I was a newcomer there?"

"A veteran of the swamps would know you don't take toddlers on rafts," he pointed out.

She looked at him warily, her brow creased and her mouth turned slightly into a frown as she appraised the information he gave her. He thought she may be angry with him, but the frown quickly turned into a wide grin. She gave him a slap on the back and a chuckle.

"Ha! And here I thought you were a piss poor scout. More observant than you look, that's for sure," her voice was light and her face even lighter, as if she was letting go of some deep-seated worry, "The toddler may have been my right dagger and the water drake may have been a swamp tusket and I may have possibly been slightly inebriated, but everything else was the same."

"You thought I was piss poor?" he asked confused. Llyn hadn’t sensed her looking down on him. Made him feel nervous all over again.

" _Thought_ being the operative word there, buddy. Minanter was a mess, and I figured the head scout who couldn't get the clan prepared for an attack like that wasn't worth his salt. Maybe I was wrong."

"You were," he snapped at her, "Minanter was a mess, but it wasn't our fault -- my fault. The shemlen overwhelmed us, kept us running, and we called for reinforcements because of information I got. I have fucked up a lot of stuff, but I didn't fuck that up!"

The smell of the fire from the mage's bombardment filled his nostrils, and he felt the heat of it on his brow again. It wasn't a heat like the desert. Instead, it was cruel and relentless, and it spoke of his death. He did the best he could at Minanter. They all did. Llyn wouldn't let anyone diminish that. 

Sellarin merely shrugged her shoulders and sighed, "What can I say? I was wrong. Happens from time to time. Had no room talking anyways. The Diceni arrived a day late and a copper short. It was the Inquisitor that pulled everyone's asses out of the fire."

"Yeah," he responded dully,"I may be a shit leader, but scouting is the only thing I really love in this gods-forsaken world. I _didn't_ fuck it up."

"Hey, I agreed. Sounds to me like you're trying to convince yourself now though," she observed, and he knew she wasn't wrong. 

He kicked the packed sand from under his foot, and tried hard not to think about Minanter. Time had slowed the nightmares of it, but thinking about facing his death still unsettled him.

"Maybe I am," was all he could say.

They waited for the sour merchant to prepare their goods for the trip, then left the dusty little down as the sun started to set on the horizon. They veered of the beaten road to make their way to the Oasis Clan Abersher'al would be spending their summer at. Their feet went from the familiar mud-packed trail to the shifting, soft sands. The desert was lit up in orange and gold, like a palace to some god-king, breath-taking and frightful all at once, but Llyn couldn't bring himself to enjoy it. 

He wanted to go home.

\---

"Easy," Sal said to the elves pointing weapons at them, their eyes fierce and untrusting and his hands up in the air in appeasement, "I brought help, just like I said I would."

They did not lower their weapons. Elain was afraid of this. Traveling all the way from Autini and through those haunted sewers, only to find that their aid would not be welcome. She had already planned for this scenario. They would still liberate the city, whether the city elves cooperated or not.

The weapons, Elain noticed, were not well crafted. Some were barely weapons at all. Butcher knives and sharpened wooden pikes and in one case, a board torn up from the docks with jagged pieces of metal hammered in. They were weapons made of desperation, and going by the stains on some of them, they had already been used.

"Sal!"

An armored man pushed his way through the crowd of frightened refugees hiding in this filthy old tavern, a bow on his back and daggers on his waist. 

"Yemet! Thank the Maker's teeth, someone who'll see reason!" Sal cried in relief as he let his hands drop. The others looked at each in resignation, then let their weapons drop too. 

"We thought you'd gotten killed! Shit, I've never been so happy to see your ugly face," the other elf, Yemet, replied to him. He gave Sal a hearty slap on his back, and Sal gave him a laugh in return, "These your friends?"

Sal looked over his shoulder at Elain and her waiting entourage, "Wouldn't call them ' _friends_ ', but they're here to help."

"So quickly you dismiss your allies," Elain cut in, irritated with Sal's continued obstinance at her methods, "I am the Maiden of the Hunt of Clan Lavellan. My presence was requested by name."

She held her hand out to Yemet, who looked at it as if it were poison. Elain pulled it back quickly, annoyed at the lack of manners among these elves.

"Sal, did you really bring me a heavily pregnant woman to help us get out of this mess?" Yemet asked him in disbelief. 

Elain could barely believe the gall of this man. Before Sal could open his loud mouth again, she stepped forward, certain Revas' footsteps wouldn't be far behind, and confronted the unbelievably rude Yemet.

"The Maiden of the Hunt brought the combined fighting forces of Clan Lavellan and Clan Diceni, the best soldiers the Dalish have to offer, as well as another scion among the Dalish. We are willing to fight for your cause and your people, an honor very few get."

Yemet laughed and gave a mock bow, "Oh, excuse me! I didn't know I was in such prestigious company! Shall I roll out the royal blue silks to welcome your highness? I wouldn't want your noble feet to step on the filth of our alienage!"

"Yemet," Sal chided him quietly, "They want to help."

"Yeah, well, we've been holding our own since you left. I don't need some high and mighty asshole thinking that showing up means we're going to fawn over them."

"You don't need to fawn over anything," Elain responded coldly, "But you'd do well to try to cooperate. We are taking this city back, with or without you."

"Oh, the mighty saviors! Here to save our city!" Yemet exclaimed sarcastically, but his look turned very dark, very quickly. He continued on, his voice much lower, "You're two days late. Everyone who couldn't fight fled, and even some of the ones who could fight. This is all that's left. The Guild is going to stand 'till there's none of us left, so don't act like you're coming in and doing us a favor. Go back to your magic wagons and keep putting your fingers in your ears about us, since we aren't ' _real elves_ '."

He spit at the floor towards her feet.

Elain grit her teeth together, but knew better to start a fight. She needed this Theives Guild to cooperate with her and the hunters so they could get to Donovan. But Revas didn't know better though, and she had to hold her arm out to stop him from moving towards Yemet. 

"This is all that's left?" Sal asked fearfully, "Just the Guild?"

"Yeah," Yemet said, "We sent the rest through the Catacombs to get out of the city. There's something really fucked up going on. These mercs aren't acting like regular mercs. They're mad. Killing anything they see. No rhyme or reason to it anymore."

"You sent them through...through the Catacombs?" Keeper Deshanna finally found her voice, though now it shook, "All those bodies..."

"What are you talking about?" Yemet snapped at her.

"How many Yemet?" Sal asked him, "How many did you send down there?"

"All of them, Sal," he replied with rising agitation, panic starting to settle in, "What happened? What's wrong?"

"There were hundreds living here. You send all of them through!" Sal said, his own voice raised as well.

"Yes, yes! I didn't have a choice! It was either send them out, or let them get slaughtered here! For Andraste's sake, what happened Sal?"

The room fell deathly quiet, no one willing to give voice to what had happened to those poor elves. Elain's stomach felt as though it dropped to her feet. There had not been hundreds of corpses that attacked them, but there was still so many. She could still smell their rotting bodies and see their glowing eyes...

"They're dead," it was Aneth'ail who finally spoke, "Or, at least a large portion of them are. The Veil is thin in this city, and demons are breaking through. We encountered one in the Catacombs who possessed it's victims. I fear many of them were the refugees you sent away."

"What do you mean they're dead! They were fine, they were just...they were just getting somewhere safe..." Yemet stammered at the news.

The color drained out of Yemet's face, and some of the people surrounding him helped him into a nearby chair. Sal moved to behind the counter of the bar, bent over, and when he straightened, a bottle of some kind of hard liquor was in his hands. He walked towards the table that Yemet now sat at, shaking and pale, and he poured him some of the drink into a glass.

"Here," he moved it into his hand, "It'll help calm your nerves, son."

"Is it true?" he asked him before swallowing a mouthful of the drink.

Sal nodded, "Yeah. Sorry son. I know you were only doin' what you thought was right. 

"They were dead no matter what," Yemet said sullenly, "No weapons, no training, nothing but the clothes on their backs. That's all the shems would let them have. And now we know why."

"Where's Marlow?" Sal asked him.

"Dead. He went down during the blitz two nights ago. You're looking at the new Guildmaster," he said sardonically. 

The older elf sat down in a stool next to him at the table, sighing deeply as he did. Elain stood patiently, knowing how important it was to let the loss sink in. Better for him to understand it now than for it to hit him in the heat of a fight. 

But they couldn't wait forever. Every moment that passed was one moment closer to Donovan finding out they were there. Surprise would be their greatest weapon now.

"So what do we do now?" Yemet looked up from his empty cup and towards Elain, as if he knew what she was thinking.

"We?" she questioned him. She needed to make sure he was willing to work with her, not against her.

"Don't have much of a choice," he said resignedly, "We either sit here and die, go in the Catacombs and die, or we fight with you...and probably die. The Guild always fights."

"Then we would be honored to fight with you to retake this city. _Your_ city."

He eyed Elain up at her agreement to help, apprehensive about her sincerity, but reached out his hand towards her. She took it in hers and shook on their agreement, ready at last to work together.

"We need to get an idea on what's going on in Wycome beyond the alienage," she addressed Yemet directly, giving him the respect she felt a leader deserved, "What are your impressions? What's our next move?"

Yemet reached over Sal to grab the bottle of liquor and poured his cup to the brim, "Your guess is as good as ours. Two nights ago, about fifty of Donovan's men came in, fully armed, mages in company, and as pissed off as an old goat. They were knocking on doors and dragging people out of their homes, takin' them up to Poppy Avenue. The ones that didn't listen got cut down, just like Jossa. The Guild didn't take kindly to it, so we fought back. Lost a lot of people. A lot of bystanders that shouldn't have had to deal with it. That's why I sent everyone that I could away. I tried to salvage what I could."

"Why'd they attack like that?" Elain questioned him. Yemet shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know. After Sal went to get help, they'd come every night, scaring everyone off the streets, and taking in _‘criminals_ ’. Night after night, and they just kept coming back more and more deranged each time. And there used to be city guards with them. Not anymore."

"Has that plague we've heard about reached them now too?" she pressed him. 

"Could be. We haven't been able to get far enough from the alienage to get more information. We're holding a ghost town now."

"Uh...I might have an answer for what’s going on."

Rin spoke up from behind Elain and the hunters, waving her hand in the air to get their attention. Sal pounded his fist on the table.

"Damn it Rin, if you know what's going on here and been holdin' back, so help me...." he threatened her. 

"Not holding back, just...not telling you?" she said meekly, "But I had specific instructions from the Inquisitor herself! ' _Lead them into the city, make contact with the alienage militia, arm the militia, and direct them to the source of the plague._ ' See, it's written right here."

Rin held up a crumbled piece of parchment, the wax long broken, but the seal of the Inquisition still visible on it. Elain sighed deeply, knowing she was telling the truth, and Sal let his head fall on the table.

"So you couldn't tell us what you were supposed to be doing?" he asked her as he slowly rocked his forehead back and forth over the patina of the wood table.

"I did tell you," she asserted her innocence, and Sal groaned loudly, "I just didn't like, explain it until it was time. Might've messed up the mission otherwise."

"So where are these weapons? And the source of the plague?" Elain ignored Sal's bemoaning and directed her questions to Rin.

"Down in the Catacombs," she stated, to the dismay of everyone in the room.

Elain had suspected, but she did not relish the idea of trekking through those dark waters again. They reminded her too much of her nightmares.

"Then we move to the Catacombs," Aneth'ail declared, "And soon. The longer we linger, the more time our enemies have to overwhelm us."

"After you, son," Sal grumbled as he got up and walked out of the tavern into the night air.

\----

The second trip into the sewers was far less unsettling than the first. The route Rin took them down was relatively well-used, and the water mainlines had all but dried up. Revas still stalked close behind her, obviously shaken from the first trip, and Elain did not mind at all. The demon had left her feeling deeply chilled; a chill she had not experienced since her Last Trial. 

They picked up the weapons in a small enclave set off of the sewer, turned into a makeshift armory. There were well made crossbows, bolts, swords, and all manner of axes. Neither Yemet nor Sal seemed to be aware of this location before they arrived, and Elain dared not question Rin who had placed these weapons here. She didn't want to have any knowledge of it, just in case it was a carta stockpile. Better to be ignorant than pretend to be ignorant. 

After the Guild fighters were armed and the hunters had steeled themselves, Rin led them further down the tunnels, into one that seemed to incline rather steeply before gradually declining again, with fresh water flowing down a channel held up by stone pillars in the center. 

"Where is this water coming from?" she asked their guide.

"Freshwater from the largest tributary on the Minanter. The city was built over it as a source. The nobles and higher ups have special wells that dip into the water directly; us poor folks gotta drink the dregs from down by the docks instead," Sal answered her. 

"So, you have a different water source than the upper class in the city?" she pressed him.

"Yeah. You think those corpse flies would let elves sip from the same thing they do? We just have a well that gets groundwater."

"And you don't know how lucky you are for it," Rin said more seriously than her usual light tone, "It's not much further."

The sound of rushing water filled the tunnels as they followed the aqueduct that seemed to be dumping water into a reservoir. The reservoir was high up from the sewers, accessible only by a tiny ladder that Elain could see, but there was something about it that made her skin crawl. The reservoir itself seemed to be lit internally, as if it was powered by some artificial light, one that glowed an eerie red. She was afraid of what they would find. 

"No point on all of us going up the ladder," Rin commented as they approached the high wall of the reservoir, "Just a few will need to see it."

Elain nodded and signaled for Revas and Aneth'ail to follow her up the ladder, with Threlen opting to come too. Sal and Yemet were not far behind, but the climb was slow. The stone was wet and slippery. It made Elain feel unsteady, and the last thing she wanted was a broken neck. 

As they rose higher and higher in the air, the rushing water grew louder and louder, until it almost sounded like whispering voice to Elain. The words it said were unintelligible, but the sensation was chilling none the less. She hoped it was only her imagination and her nervousness playing tricks on her mind. She wasn't ready to face another demon so soon.

Rin was over the top of the edge of the reservoir and helped Elain over too as she reached the last rung of the ladder. It wasn't her most graceful moment, but no one was there to judge her that mattered.

They waited for the rest of the entourage to make their way up, and when the group was reunited -wet, but seemingly safe-, they pressed forward farther into the manmade reservoir. 

The cheap, dilapidated stone of the Catacombs gave way to gorgeously carved marble columns filled with green, climbing vines. On the walls sat intricate glass mosaics depicting colorful scenes of mariner life and sea animals, oysters seeming to be present in every mural. It was a startling difference from the damp, sewage filled tunnels further west in the city, and Elain marveled at the beautiful details money could buy. 

"Nice place," Revas commented behind her, but his bow was out and an arrow settled in his fingers against the bowstring. He knew just as well as her that it's beauty didn't diminish the danger.

"This is where the source of the magical corruption I have been feeling is coming from," Aneth'ail said quietly, "Can't you feel it? It burns like a fire against the Veil. Flame against cloth, eating right through it."

"We'll just have to trust you on that, son," Sal said nervously as he looked around the high walls of the entrance of the reservoir, "What's that light?"

The red glow only persisted, coming from the end of the entrance, but it never seemed to get brighter. It was a dull light that felt unreal. As if it were eating the other light around it. 

"You'll see soon enough," was all Rin would say.

They moved forward, but with each step, Elain began to feel shooting pain in her feet. It was sharp and annoying, but she convinced herself that it was merely the weight of the baby getting to her. Better to think that then to face what this all reminded her of. Inviting comparison between the two was an invitation for fear. 

And yet, the thought of it creeped and slithered into her mind without her consent as they drew closer and closer. The rumbling of the water still sounded like whispering, but louder, more pronounced, though not any more understandable. It was as if the voices were speaking an entirely different language; one she did not understand. 

The group reached the end of the tunnel at last. The trip that only took a few moments seemed like a lifetime, but what Elain saw at the end made her wish she had never come at all.

Large, crystal-like rocks, jutting and spiraling out of the deep reservoir, making the water warm and red with it's internal light. A light that wasn't a light at all. It was dark and black and dripped inky blackness into the water below it. And the whispering. It screeched in her ears, like teeth. Like Her Teeth. Like the things she had seen so many times, and had told herself so many times that it wasn't real.

This was all too real.

"What is it?" Threlen asked as the group stared at the corrupted crystal that had been making the city sick.

"Red lyrium," Rin replied, "It's what that bastard Coryphe-whatever has been giving the templars to make super soldiers to fight for him. Also what drove Knight Commander Meredith mad back in Kirkwall. This is serious shit."

"No doubt," Yemet said, "It feels like I'm clenching my teeth, even when I'm not."

Elain was clenching hers. Very tightly. She had seen it so many times, so so many times. The dripping bitumen, falling between Her conical dragon's teeth, Her rancid, decaying breath.

_Did you think you could hide, Maiden?_

_Did you think I would not see?_

_I see all. I know all._

_Your Blood is Mine._

_Emma halam inara._

The whispers were clear now, and it was Her Voice, speaking through the corruption. Elain began to panic, her breath caught in her chest, but no one else seemed to be affected by the words. She looked around the room for some escape, but when she stumbled backwards, the sharp pain she felt on the approach turned excruciating, shooting up her legs and into her torso. 

“What’s wrong, El? Are you okay?” Revas asked her.

“Can’t you hear it?!” she cried, her tears filling her eyes as the pain thrummed through her, “Oh gods help me, _can’t you hear it?!_ ”

“Hear what?” he grabbed her shoulders, concern painting his face.

She slammed her fists over her ears as hard as she could, hoping it would stop the chorus of Her Voice, but she only heard Her Laughter, louder and louder, making her eardrums feel as if they would burst. Her head spun in the pain, and she only wanted to get away from it, but she she turned to run, she was paralyzed, her body made of stone, and the ground rose up to meet her face.

“ _PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP, PLEASE!_ ” she screamed. There was distant yelling, and she felt someone picking her up off the ground. She couldn’t see who it was anymore. The pain made her vision blur and made opening her eyes hurt. She sobbed as someone carried her away from the loud laughing, and her arms flew around their neck so they wouldn’t drop her and leave her in this nightmare. 

“Shhh, I have you,” someone’s voice calmed her, and the chorus of voices became the whispers of the rushing water in the aqueduct again. 

The pain lessened gradually, but her whole body shook as she tried to regain control over her thoughts. The panic of her fear made her heart race and it wouldn’t stop. She doubted it would stop until they were away from the thing she know so intimately for long. 

“I heard them too.”

Elain realized the one who pulled her away was Aneth’ail, as he now set her down gently back to the ground. She wiped the tears from her face, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst.

“The whispers that turned to shouting. I had heard the corpses speaking as well. Wherever the Fade bleeds, I see and hear things from my Trials,” he explained to her gently, “And the Veil is corroded away here. It’s no wonder you could feel it as well.”

“Then it was all real,” the realization struck her, “All of it was real.”

“Who can say? The Beyond is a mysterious place, even for those of us who spend our lives getting in touch with it. It could be spirits and demons toying with us, or it could very well be Our Gods speaking through us the only way They know how. Not even I have the answers.”

She felt vulnerable and scared still, even more so of what the Hand had seen. What she felt was tangible. Like she could nearly grasp it and hold it. She could only imagine what a mage like him would have felt.

“How do I make it stop?” she asked him softly, “I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes momentarily, “It’s a question I have often asked myself, Maiden. _How do I make this go away? How do I give back what I so eagerly sought out?_ But in truth, we cannot. We chose this life. We devoted ourselves to the gods, and the gods have repaid us in kind. As we’ve benefited from Their munificence, now we must endure Their Wrath.”

They stood in silence for a few moments while Elain recovered herself. The embarrassment she felt earlier rolled away, leaving only a strange sense of respect that she had not had for The Hand before this. 

“What did you hear?” she asked him after awhile, relieved almost that she wasn’t alone in this, “Were you able to make out words?”

“Yes,” he stated, “Though I doubt they would mean anything to you. And you?”

“The same,” she replied.

“If the humans here were drinking water contaminated by that red lyrium, it would explain the madness,” he reflected.

“Yes.”

“But why is it here?” he asked no one in particular. The steady thump of approaching boots was added to the noise of the rushing water as their group finally rejoined them.

“No clue,” Rin’s voice joined their conversation, “All we know is the Duke brought it in. Guess he’s the one who’ll have the answers.”

“Then we know our next step,” Elain said as Revas walked up next to her and set his hand on her lower back in comfort. 

“And what’s that, Maiden?” Sal asked her earnestly. He and everyone else looked on her expectantly. Even without seeing what she and Aneth’ail saw, they knew the danger the red lyrium posed. 

“We’re going to overthrow a Duke.”

 


	30. Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een and Sera take a short trip into Val Royeaux; the Dalish and the city elves come up with a plan to get to the Duke of Wycome's estate.

The only redeeming quality about Sar’een’s preparation for the Winter Palace was that she got to spent her time in Vivienne’s gardens learning. Lush, fully bloomed flowers filled the air with their heady scent, and colorful butterflies flapped from one flower to the next. It was a vast array of blues and purples and pinks and yellows, and the insects drawn to them had their own rainbow of hues to show off. The green grass was soft, almost like a pillow, and the sounds of the kitchen staff on the other side of the courtyard added an interesting white noise to the quiet of the gardens. 

Sar’een found herself enjoying her time there more than anything, and set herself up everyday under a smooth marble statue of Andraste on the pyre. Cassandra had commented on it’s “Orlesianess”, but Sar’een found it touchingly beautiful. The prophetess of the Chantry always gazed straight ahead, solemn yet hopeful, the flames engulfing her looking uncanny in their realistic depiction. It amazed her that the stone could be shaped so masterfully, that it seemed as if she were to reach out and touch it, it would burn her hand. 

When she found herself alone today, she did touch it, almost surprised to find it cool against against her fingers. Everything she had read and learned about Andraste made her sound so passionate, so full of fire. A woman who defied her station and lot, had faith in her Creator, and led her people to freedom. She led Sar'een's people as well, though that did not last. It wasn't Andraste's fault, not really. Sar'een felt almost sure she'd be appalled at the Exalted March on the Dales. A woman like that would want justice for everyone, freedom for everyone. It was a pity more people associated with the Chantry did not emulate the Prophetess. 

"Ay, there you are! Did you chase Madame de Piss Priss off?" Sera asked her as she mocked Vivienne in the same breath. Sar'een let out a quiet sigh at her peace being disrupted and closed the book she had been reading.

"No, Vivienne had her own matters to attend to," Sar'een answered her politely, "I was just doing some research."

Sera plopped down on the ground next to her with a hard thump and a laugh, "Researching the statues then? I saw you strokin' her like she was a ripe peach. Tired of looking at all that elfy tripe?"

"No!" Sar'een blushed madly at Sera seeing her touching the statue, her cheeks and the tips of her ears feeling like they were on fire, "I just...I just wanted to see what it felt like."

"Feels right like cold rock. We should go in the city, find you something warm to grab onto," the smile Sera flashed her was mischievous.

"Oh no," Sar'een shook her head vigorously, "The last time I let you talk me into grabbing onto something, it was a basket of rotten fish heads you wanted to slip into Solas' bedroll.

She giggled loudly, "Yeah, which you stopped! It's all good though. Worked better in his breeches anyways. You know he only has one pair?"

"Really?"

"Dead truth. What’s he need them for though? Rather spend his time with all that demons and magicky shite. One pair of breeches..." her thoughts drifted off.

Sar'een tucked her book into the small leather bag she was holding and flung it over her shoulder as she stood up from the grassy ground.

"Well, it looks like we're going to the city markets after all!" she said brightly to her friend.

"That's it!" Sera stood up excitedly as well, before pausing as she dusted off her shirt, "Wait. What for?"

"To buy Solas some pants."

\---

"I'm tellin' you Noodly, his arse is bigger than mine!" Sera warned her again as the tailor took her measurements. Sar'een furrowed her brow and pursed her lips as he did his work; making marks on the tape he used, stretching pieces of textiles and fabrics over Sera's body, and then, measuring again. She was sure it meant he was thorough and professional. Or, she certainly hoped that's what it meant.

"Don't worry. We can always get them fixed if they don't fit him," Sar'een assured her. 

"I thought we were doing something fun today. Getting pockets for Elfy isn't fun," she pouted as the tailor held up a dark blue fabric against her thigh. 

"It's kind of fun," Sar'een smiled, "Well, for me anyways. I never got to go to the markets with the artisans in my clan."

Sera made a loud huffing noise, "Right, now you're going to tell me another story about forest elves doing elfy things and bore me even more?"

"Now why would I do that?" Sar'een teased her, "It isn't even a story. I was just never allowed to go. I'm a mage, and who knows what templars might be around."

"Right, forest elfy magey things to scare me instead of bore me," she said in exasperation as the tailor backed away from her.

"Alright, I have the measurements I need. I have some inexpensive linen that you should be able to afford, but you'll have to wait a week. Or I have some lambswool trousers that are already made, and I can just adjust them a bit to fit and be ready by the end of the day. They're more expensive though," the tailor explained to Sar'een.

She sighed at the tailor assuming that their pointed ears meant they had no money. Again. She pulled out a coin purse from the pocket of her breeches and tossed it to him. The tailor caught it immediately, then opened the purse and peered inside. 

"Five pairs made of Dales loden wool. I'd appreciate if you could have them prepared in a couple of days when I bring my friend back to get properly fitted," Sar'een said to him sweetly and a smile came to Sera's face, "And of course, this is just the down payment. The rest will come when the job is done."

The tailor looked on her in disbelief, "I don't know what you've heard ma'am, but I don't take partial payments. Especially not for high end orders like that."

Sar'een fiddled with the glove covering her marked hand before pulling it off, "Well, I don't pay the whole amount of money until I see a good product with my own eyes," she looked at her hand meaningfully, turning it back and forth in the air, the green glow of the mark casting and eery glow in the shop, "The Inquisition can't afford to have poor craftsmanship out in the field. I'm sure you understand."

"Inquisitor!" the tailor fumbled with his measuring implements and chalk, dropping most of them on the ground in front of her feet. He scrambled to pick them up, "I didn't know it was you. Well, yes, yes, of course I can make an exception in this case! You're doing the Maker's work and it would be my honor to contribute to that."

"Thank you Monsieur. I will be back in a few days with my friend. I look forward to seeing your work," she smiled to him once more before motioning for Sera to follow her out of the shop.

They had barely made it away from the lavish storefront and into the crowded streets before the both of them broke out in uncontrollable giggles. Sar'een attempted to cover her mouth with her hands, but Sera never hid her amusement.

"I can't believe you did that! He was about to piss himself!" she nearly squealed at her as she hooked her arm into Sar'een's, "' _I didn't know it was you!_ ' Right bloody shite you didn't!"

"He was pretty scared," she admitted cheerfully.

"More like pretty bent over!" Sera exclaimed, "You know they don't like that, don't you? Tubs like that only deal with rich pricks and lots of coin. Hate it when little folks show them up."

"I wouldn't say I'm a little person, Sera," she argued gently.

"You know what I mean. Unless you look and talk and piss like them, they don't think you're worth the spit in the pot," she explained, "But even I didn't know you had that in you. Where'd it come from?"

The streets in Val Royeaux's market district began to grow crowded as they approached the central location of the open market. Elves and human servants surrounded the stalls, haggling for the high-priced delicacies for their employers under the royal blue canopies that provided a lovely shade on such a warm day. The rush of Sar'een's stand against the snobby tailor began to wear off as she walked under the ornate canopies, and she began to feel a little distanced from herself. 

Why _had_ she done that? It was decidedly unlike her. It was more like…someone. Something she couldn’t place at the moment. She closed her eyes for a moment to block the sun high over her head and thought deeply on it. Then, it hit her.

Elain. Elain would do that.

But it made no sense. She wasn't the frank, intimidating woman that Elain was, so for her to treat that man like Elain would've began to unnerve her. Why had she taken off her glove? Why had she flaunted her mark? Why had the tailor annoyed her with his assumptions that as an elf, she didn't have money to pay? 

She didn't have the answers, but she knew it was something entirely new and slightly unsettling. As much as she admired the Maiden's ability to get things done, Sar'een knew that she didn’t want to pay the cost that she did.

"I...I don't know where it came from," she admitted to her friend as they strolled through the bustling marketplace, "Maybe I've been in the city for too long. Or maybe practicing The Game too much. It kind of wears you down."

"Phbbf, I knew Vivi was working you too hard on that noble tripe," Sera brushed it off, "It's all good, yeah? You did right anyways."

"I guess," Sar'een shrugged. She didn't know if she agreed though. There could've been another way to handle it. She didn't like using her power like that. And the fact that she slipped into it so easily...

"We've had enough of that anyways," Sera pulled her out of her thoughts, "How 'bout we get some of that instead?"

She pointed to a stall near the lake, it's tables filled to the brimmed with odd curiosities. Sera dragged her by the arm to it, pausing to laugh over the strange things she found on display. A leather harness with a statuette of Empress Celene anchored in. A gilded frame holding a painting of a nude Andraste in repose. A wooden pull-toy with tiny heads of Dukes and Marquis' popping out, grimaces on their faces. And masks.

Masks unlike any that Vivienne had showed her. They were covered in fur and had semi-realistic eyes glued on the mask itself. But the eyes were large and buggy, and the fur was matted and reeked of perfume. 

"Now this is what you need!" Sera stated confidently as they browsed the strange wares at the stall. 

On a particularly ornate stand, another mask caught her eye. It was a perfectly realistic pigeon face, with it's own feathers and beady pigeon eyes, staring at her as if it wished to speak to her directly. She reached out to touch it, and pulled her hand back when the material of the mask went concave. It was rubbery and didn't hold it's shape when poked at, and there was something incredibly funny about the absurdity of it all to her.

"Why do I need something like this?" she laughed at Sera as she poked the mask again and watched as its beak collapsed, fell over, then righted itself up again. 

"Because Noodly, if you are going to go to the Winter Palace and play games with all those noble puss buckets, you gotta make sure they know you're playing by your own rules," Sera said matter-of-factly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to understand, "Their rules are what get little people killed. And you're better than that."

Sar'een picked up the silly mask and shook it gently to watch it shake like a gelatin, "You think I'm better than the nobility of Orlais?"

"Worth more than all the money Orlais could shit out," she assured her, wrapping her arm around her shoulder before pointing towards a garish horsehead mask, "Look, I can get a matching one!"

She laughed as she clutched the mask in her hands, feeling a little lighter about the overwhelming pressure to perform well at the Winter Palace that she had put herself under these past couple of weeks. There was much on the line; the fate of Orlais was in her shaking hands. Yet, she felt Sera had something right. How this situation would be handled, how the Inquisition should be handled, had been dictated to her from the very beginning. What the nobles would and wouldn’t like, what the Chantry would think, how everyone else would respond without any thought into how she felt. 

Maybe this is why she had started to reflect someone like Elain. Upholding the status quo and using that power for her own means was so like her, and so like what Sar’een had done. But it wasn’t supposed to be like that.

Being a leader was supposed to be selfless. That’s what Paeris always taught her. Leading was done because it was her duty, not because she should want something out of it. But she was tired of being led in her position as leader. Tired of being guided. Tired of her hand being held. Tired of trying to be someone she was not so that people would listen to her. Tired of resting easily on her laurels. And scared of becoming just like the Maiden.

She wanted to do this on her own terms.

“Excuse me monsieur,” Sar’een said suddenly to the merchant tending the odd market stall, “I would like to purchase these masks.”

\----

“They’re not going to just let us barge into the Duke’s Keep!” Sal remarked rather loudly from behind his bar. Elain thought he was more at ease there, less wound up, but certainly just as argumentative. 

“Well no shit,” Revas snapped back at him as he leaned against the bar and twirled his hunting knife in his hands as a distraction, “Did you really think we were going to walk right up to his door and knock?”

“That ain’t the point, son, and you know it,” Sal shot back hotly before taking a drink out of the liquor bottle being passed around the old wooden bar. The group planning the attack was small but aware of the danger of the red lyrium they found, and now they were scrambling to come up with something to save this gods-forsaken city, “The point is we ain’t gettin’ in without a plan, and any plan is gonna take us right through Poppy Avenue.”

“What’s on Poppy Avenue?” Elain questioned him.

“A whole bunch of rich tits with enough coin to wall up their section of the city. And their section is the only way into the Duke’s estate,” Yemet answered her, “That’s Poppy Avenue. Nice name, but it’s the road that leads right through the gates into The Nacre Palace. And you can bet on your life it’s well guarded.”

“It that where Donovan and his mercenaries are?” Revas pressed him.

Yemet leaned over the bar counter and took a gulp from the bottle, “I’d bet my life on it. After the Blitz, they ran back towards that way real fast. Could tell they weren’t expectin’ any resistance here. Fucking idiots.”

“Maybe they’re regrouping? Planning on coming back with a larger force?” Elain posed the question, “I need more information. What’s the layout of the city?”

“Sal would have to tell you that,” Yemet drawled, “He knows the city better than anyone.”

Sal heaved a big sigh, but bent over behind his counter and came back up with a large sheet of parchment. It was old, yellowed, and full of holes; knife-holes if Elain had to guess. Her guess was confirmed when she saw a crude bullseye drawn on one side of the parchment. Sal turned it over, set the blank side face up on the bar, and pulled a piece of charcoal from out of his pocket.

“Alright, so here’s how it is,” he drew a large rectangle, with a squiggling line flowing through it, “That’s the tributary that flows through the city. We saw what was happening there and we all know how deep the shit is.”

They all nodded in agreement. The red lyrium problem was indeed very deep.

He scrawled several sections in the rectangle and one large circle towards the center; then, a wide path cutting through half the city. It was simple but understandable, and Elain affirmed her grasp of the layout as Sal made a large ‘X’ to mark their current location.

“This is the city. See here?” He pointed towards the set of squares alongside the ‘X’, “This is the alienage. And down here is the docks. This makes up the lower district of the city; the runoff. Carnation Street runs the length of it parallel, but it’s narrow as a chantry sister’s waist. We can use that to our advantage if the mercs come storm the Alienage again.”

“Now here’s Tulip Way. It leads to the district where the merchants and laborers live,” Sal gestured to a district northwest of the docks and alienage, “Now notice I said where they live, not where they work. That’s here.”

A open space that bridged a gap between the alienage and Poppy Avenue was where he directed them to on his makeshift map, “This is the Bazaar. Everyone from fishmongers to jewelers set up shop here. If you got the cash for a permit, that is. Most the administration for the city is done on up against the city walls here,” the edge of the rectangle on the left, “and up here towards the entrance to Poppy Avenue. You keepin’ up with me son?”

She didn’t know if he was asking Revas or Aneth’ail, but they both nodded.

“Good. Now listen close here, ‘cos you both are gonna regret it if you don’t,” he said sternly, “Poppy Avenue is gated, but that’s easy to get through. Then you just head straight through the noble neighborhood ‘till you reach the Nacre Palace gates. But they ain’t just any ol’ gates.”

Sal drew another set of crude lines, this time some sort of outline of this palace. 

“Back in Old Wycome, the rulers had an ancient castle they set up shop in. Back from the Imperium days. Old as stone, but built to last. Mostly did too, until the Fourth Blight. Darkspawn ravaged the city and most of the castle, but the walls surrounding stood. Ain’t no getting through them unless you go through the front gate.”

“And how are we to do that?” Aneth’ail asked him earnestly. Sal gave him a grim smile and a wink.

“With a lot of luck. Water gets diverted from the Minanter and fills up an old moat around the walls, so you gotta get the drawbridge down. That ain’t gonna be easy. So you either get a plan to get that bridge down, or you get a plan to get over without it.”

“How deep is the moat?” Revas questioned him. He stared at the map intensely, plots and maneuvers forming in his mind just as rapidly as they were forming in Elain’s. Despite her wanting to lead this coup, she knew most of it would fall on his shoulders. It disappointed her that she would be left out, but she had already pressed her luck in coming all this way. She wouldn’t jeopardize herself and her relationship further by insisting on leading the charge. Elain trusted Revas would get the job done.

“Real deep, son,” Sal said absently before moving his hand over to the bottle and taking a swig, “But I’m sure you can figure something out. You Dalish are resourceful, right?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed, “We’ll tear down the gates into the rich estates and make bridges out of that material if it comes down to it.”

“Glad to see you got everything figured out,” Sal responded wryly, “Now if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say most your resistance is going to be at the Bazaar at the gates leading into Poppy Avenue. It’s a good place to bunker down and keep any blood spilled out of the noble’s faces. They don’t appreciate all the guts, ya know.”

“And what of scouts? Has this Theives’ Guild sent any out to find out where Donovan and his men are stationed?” Warlord Threlen questioned. As the plans were being laid out, he seemed to be growing more and more agitated, his fingers tapping the wooden bartop impatiently. The Warlord didn’t like going in blind.

Yemet gave him a dark chuckle, “You think I’d send any of my people out there after that Blitz? Nah, we fortified the Alienage and got who we could out. We were waiting for them to bring the fight to our turf. Ain’t so easy cutting the Guild down when we’re at home.”

“We need to send out scouts of our own then,” Threlen replied. 

“There’s not enough time,” Elain argued, “Every minute we wait to act is another minute we lose our upper hand. If they spot our scouts and know we’re here, they can regroup faster than we’ll be able to.”

“I don’t like this Maiden,” he responded gruffly, “No eyes and ears to see what we’re heading into, no idea what is happening outside of this little area of the city. We don’t even know if any of these elves that got sent away survived. This is a blind mission.”

“It isn’t ideal, but we have no choice,” Aneth’ail attempted to soothe his father’s worries, “Donovan will not go away easily. No matter what, there will be battle. Let us use what little advantages we have.”

Threlen grunted his assent, though not happily, and Elain knew she’d have to speak with Revas about him. She didn’t trust the Warlord and his Diceni hunters to stay the course if he felt there was a better way. Another reason for her to curse her condition and her inability to get in the field. 

“And what of the merchants and laborers? Surely they can’t condone this wholesale slaughter,” Deshanna spoke up from the end of the bar, “Is there any way we could appeal to them?”

“Bah, the shems don’t like to get themselves involved in anything happenin’ to us,” Sal shot her down, “They stay locked up in their little district while our blood runs in the streets.”

“What about the red lyrium? What if they saw it was a threat to them too? Perhaps they would fight back then,” Deshanna proposed, “We could show them that their Duke is poisoning the city, and maybe they’d support us in the fight.”

Yemet snorted loudly, as did other Guild members, but Sal seemed to reflect on her proposition. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, “You know… it might work. Get ‘em to see that it ain’t just us that’ll get the sword. They’re just as much in danger as we are. Even if they don’t fight, if they see us doing somethin’ about it, they might be more willing to support the coup. I say we give it a try.”

“There’s no time for us to try to get some cowardly shemlen to work with us,” Revas protested, “We have to move and we have to do it fast.”

“Well hold your horses there son,” Sal raised his hands up in the air to diffuse the tension, “I don’t think you’re going to be wantin’ to take the Maiden with you…”

Revas glanced at her, then back at the barkeeper, “No.”

“And I’m too old to be going into any heated battle. Me and her can try to convince the shems over on Tulip Way to work with us.”

“And I can go with them as well,” Deshanna cut in, “With the three of us, I’m sure we can convince them that working with us will be in their best interest. And Donovan’s men will be too distracted by our main forces to notice us.”

“I won’t leave you three here alone,” Revas said, “We’ll provide a small force to defend the alienage. It’s walled, so it’s fortified enough for you to have some protection. And if we lose ground, we can always fall back and hold out here until we can regroup.”

“That will work,” Elain agreed with him. She was pleased Sal came up with an idea that would still allow her to participate, even in the most superficial way. The idea of waiting while everyone else fought did not sit well with her, “Rin can take us through the Catacombs to Tulip Way and show the humans living there the red lyrium.”

“Well about that,” Rin answered from a nearby table, “It’s probably best if we stayed above ground whenever we can.”

“And why’s that?” Sal asked her impatiently.

She pointed towards the weapons on the Guild member’s back, “Because your kids are packin’ Carta heat, and you probably don’t want them to catch wind of it.”

“I thought you were working for them!” he pointed out with exasperation.

“Well, see the thing is,” Rin began to explain, “I might have said ‘ _working_ ’ when I really meant that Adamantia Cadash wants my head for losing her a lot of coin, and the carta _might_ have orders to apprehend me on sight.”

“I swear on my mother’s grave, if we make it out of this Rin…” Sal pointed his finger at her in a threat.

“Enough,” Elain interrupted. There was no time for games anymore, “We’ll take Carnation Street as far as we can, then get sneak our way into Tulip Way. It will be fine. The hunters will provide enough of distraction that we should be safe.”

“Whatever you say, Maiden,” Sal relented, but still stared daggers at the smuggler.

“So what now then?” Yemet asked impatiently, “Heard a lot about working with the shems, but not too much about what these hunters are going to do.”

Revas unslung the bow from his back and Aneth’ail pushed off the bar countertop.

“Now we go fight through Poppy Avenue until we get to wherever the Duke is holed up,” Revas explained, “Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast. No mercy...but Donovan gets taken alive.”

“And what about the Guild?” Yemet said, “We aren’t just going to sit around and let you fight through our city.”

“Assumed you were coming along. We’re blind out there, but your people at least know your way around,” he responded.

“You’re damn right we do. I’ll leave a few folks to defend too, but this is our city. I ain’t letting any halla shit eaters take all the credit,” Yemet pulled his own crossbow from his harness on his back. 

“Then I hope your people can aim. We halla shit eaters put threats down before most soldiers even know they’re in danger,” Revas spat back at him, and the hunters listening in laughed. Yemet rolled his eyes and got off his stool at the bar.

“Oh, we can aim. Don’t you worry about that.”

There was nothing left to say. The plans were as set as they could be, and the committee disbanded to prepare, the Dalish and the Guild members each among themselves. Before he could get too far, Elain grabbed Revas by the elbow and led him off to the side of the room. There wasn’t much time, and she had to know they were on the same page.

“Don’t let the Warlord give you or the hunters field commands. Keep them on a tight leash,” she whispered to him as she let his arm drop, “If he sees an opening to take over, he will.”

“I know,” he said impatiently. Elain was suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of him going to battle again without her, and realized she was more afraid of losing him than she was of being left behind. It was an anxious worm eating at her gut, reminding her of the battle at Minanter, and the same pain of resignation filled her heart. It was startling how quickly it hit her.

“And don’t be too rash, Shem’assan,” she brought her hands up to his chest and ran her fingers over the leather there, her need to touch him overriding the need to project an image of authority in front of the clans, “I don’t want them to bring your body back to me.”

He caught her hands in his, and brought her fingers to his mouth, where he placed soft kisses on the tips, “I’ll try not to. Make sure you do the same. I don’t want to bury you or the baby.”

As if it recognized it’s father talking about it, the baby kicked her abdomen, nearly making her jump. The fact that this was their child inside of her and not just some burden that would go away soon also startled her. Everything was becoming all too real, all too soon, and it made it hard to breath. But she ignored it the best she could so as to not miss her moment with him, and nodded in agreement with Revas’ request, “I will.”

“I love you, Peach,” he kissed her lips softly this time, but swiftly, and before she knew it, he pulled away, “Andruil’enaste.”

Their conversation was over as quickly as it had begun, and she found herself longing for all the time that had been lost in their lives as he rejoined Aneth’ail and Threlen. It was precious currency to her now, and all those years apart seemed wasted; coin thrown into a river never to be recovered. She prayed he would come back again, and cursed herself for not realizing sooner how dangerous this mission would be. 

The hunters moved out of The Whale’s Eye, preparing to march, and Elain was left sitting on a small stool with a token force, the only thing standing between the militia forces of the city and death. They chatted amongst themselves nervously, wondering what the future would bring, and she couldn’t help but reflect on the same. 

Death or triumph? Pain or glory? Tragedy or Victory? 

Elain could endure it all if only her Shadow would return.


	31. Lurk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llyn and Sellarin struggle to find Clan Abersher'al in the deserts of Nevarra; Sal and Clan Lavellan make a startling discovery

The sand dunes were endless. 

Just rolling hills of shifting sand that burned the soles of his feet. Wearing boots made them blister and sweat and chafe. Llyn had no choice but to take them off, and by the second day of crossing the dunes, he was praying for the Dread Wolf to take him between his jaws and crush him. 

The sun just made it worse too. He had removed his shirt and tied it around his scalp to prevent it from burning, and just ended up with his back and chest peeling and blistering. They would only spend the couple of hours at dusk traveling before the sun set over the horizon, but it was enough time for it to cause destruction on his body. Llyn understood why Elgar’nan killed His Father, the Sun, now. Not even a god could withstand this punishment.

But as the sun set and the stars finally started to glitter in the skies, the trials under the heat were forgotten, the sands cooled beneath his feet, and the desert turned from a scorching death to a brilliantly beautiful expanse. He appreciated the night much more, and found himself even relaxing on their journey when darkness crept over Nevarra.

“We’re making good time,” Sellarin commented as she navigated their path from the heavens, tracing her finger along the constellations in the sky, “As long as we don’t get distracted, we should run into the Oasis soon.”

Llyn shifted the pack he carried on his back, reaching to pull out his canteen. The water inside was hot and stale, but it still did the job, “You said that yesterday.”

“And we would’ve been there yesterday if someone hadn’t stepped on a scorpion,” she all but blamed them for their delay. 

He shrugged, unable to deny it, “It was dark. I didn’t see it.”

“We’re elves. We see just fine in the dark,” she teased him, “You were too busy complaining about how no one understands you and underestimate all you do for them.”

“Ugh, shut up,” he blushed at the teasing, “I didn’t say that.”

“Pssh, might as well have. ‘ _Oh Sellarin!_ _You can’t understand what it's like working with The Maiden! She’s just so difficult!_ ’ All while I’m here, dragging my ass through the sand, all because of her,” she mocked him. 

“I thought we were dragging our asses through the sand for your friend?” he asked her. Llyn realized she hadn’t spoken of this friend since they left. He didn’t know anything about the man that Elain had gone through such great trouble to attempt to save, though he was sure it wasn’t for noble reasons.

Sellarin shrugged, “Yeah, I mean, I guess so? Darvel wouldn’t be in this mess if The Maiden hadn’t gotten in _her mess_ though.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, “You mean the baby?”

“No, I meant the halla crap on her boots,” she gave him a shove, making him stumble a bit in the soft sand, “Of course the baby!”

“So that’s why you were spying in Clan Diceni? To get information on Paeris for Elain?”

“You’re asking lots of questions today,” she responded, bringing her hand up to her hair and running it over her scalp. It had been cut recently, he assumed her top knot sheared off. Only disgraced hunters got their hair cut. Paeris probably figured out she was a spy. 

She was also avoiding his question. Whenever he asked her about her life, her role in this whole thing, the usually boisterous spy snapped shut like a clam. But what she didn’t say spoke just as loud as what she did. Her hair being cut, her running from Paeris, Elain going through such lengths to save her and her friend, her distrust of him...it all said that she wasn’t putting her bets on Vhannas’ kids and anyone working for them to save her, but that she needed them all the same. 

“Figured I should know about the situation before we run into Abersher’al,” he attempted to coax the information out of her, “I don’t wanna miss step if we have to talk to their Council. The Triumvirate are very observant and not very forgiving.”

“Don’t you worry about the Triumvirate,” Sellarin waved him off, “I can get them on our side. You just sit back and act like the ignorant escort and we’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think tricking them will work,” he pointed out, “The Nevarran clans have no patience for political games.”

Sellarin stopped in her tracks, and turned to him with a heavy sigh.

“Let me tell you something about this job, buddy. The key to being real good at it is making sure you don’t let your mark know you’re leading them somewhere. it's all about making them believe they’re the one in charge. They’ll play the political games themselves, and pull the wool over their own eyes if you know what you’re doing.”

She began walking again, picking up her pace, and he scrambled behind her to keep up.

“Now I’m better than most at it because I can get folks to trust me pretty easily, but if you ever wanna be the best, you have to make it effortless. You gotta give those bards in Orlais a run for their money. And let me tell you Llyn...you’re no bard. So when I say not to worry and let me handle it, you’d best listen because otherwise, you’re going to end up like my friend Darvel, and I don’t want that on my conscious too.”

The wind started to pick up as they walked over another dune, blowing the sand up against his face and legs. He pulled his scarf from the side of his pack and tied it around his face, blocking any sand from going into his mouth and nostrils. 

“Understood,” he said, though he wanted to say more. The guilt of her friend was another one of those unspoken things, but as much as he wanted to press her on it, he knew just how badly she shut up after that. The little pieces she was showing him was enough to get a bigger picture later. Until then, he’d let her talk her way into the Triumvirate’s confidence. He knew what he was capable of, and it wasn’t getting the most powerful Council in Nevarra to work against the most powerful clan in the North. 

Despite his efforts, sand still blew into his eyes and embedded itself under his scarf. The wind was picking up too; it started to howl across the dunes, and walking against it was getting very difficult. If it got any worse, he feared they might be dealing with a full sandstorm and no shelter to protect themselves in.

But the earth started to shake.

It was very subtle. The sand made it difficult to feel any vibrations, but it was there. 

“You feel that?” he yelled over the loud howling of the wind.

“Yeah!” she answered back, “Hope its not a lurker! Or a pack of lurkers!”

No sooner had the words left her mouth did they see them. Their pale hide, their eyeless faces, and their daunting size made them difficult to miss. They were running parallel to them, over the dune and away from the sandstorm, their thick tails sticking up in the air to help them move faster. An entire family of lurkers, probably chased out of hiding by the sandstorm moving in. He prayed and prayed to the gods for them to pass without noticing him and Sel. He prayed to Elgar’nan, Mythal, Andruil, even Falon’din. _Please please please just let them keep going_.

Llyn knew the gods didn’t watch over him as the pack leader paused, lifted its head, and turned its powerful muzzle towards them. The others paused as well, either hearing or smelling some fresh food, and his heart stopped in his chest.

“Run.”

He barely whispered it, but Sellarin knew just as well as he that they were no match for an entire pack of lurkers. They nearly jumped down the side of the dune, and propelled their feet as fast as they would go into the sandstorm. He had to trust his ears and feet now, as his view was nothing but sharp grains of sand, and both his ears and feet told him that at least one of them was giving chase. 

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!” Sellarin cursed next to him, her arms pumping and her legs pulling her out in front of him, “Hurry up, buddy!”

Llyn was trying, but the scorpion sting had swelled up his foot the day before, and it was still sore. It was slowing him down, and he could hear the heavy stomps of the lurker’s feet in the sand. Usually the beasts tried to be quiet when hunting a meal, but they were also smart, and knew they’d already been figured out. No point on staying silent when you’re already in pursuit of your prey. 

As Sellarin pulled away and the lurker closed in, he could nearly feel its breath on the back of his neck. _This is how I die_ , he thought to himself, _I’m going to get eaten. Andruil has a sick sense of humor_. He felt the rumble of its chase stop for only a heartbeat, and he knew it was going to pounce on him. Running wasn’t fast enough, nothing was fast enough, so he did the only thing he could think of.

He ducked. 

The beast flew over him and knocked itself off balance, rolling into the sand, but the movement had knocked Llyn over too. He struggled to get up, the sand shifting and making him slip and stumble as it did the same for the lurker. They were both hunters, both grappling to gain the upper hand again, both knowing it meant life or death. If Llyn didn’t get up and away, it would most certainly be _his_ death. 

The lurker rolled its giant body over, lifting itself back up, and dug its feet into the sand for balance. He tried to do the same, but the sand was blowing too hard and he couldn’t keep his balance. Llyn fell backwards again, and the lurker moved its hulking mass over him, opening its jaws and preparing to devour him. The beast’s mouth moved swiftly towards Llyn’s head, and he did the only thing he could; grabbed its jaws, hoping to stop it from killing him. 

The saliva dripped from its mouth and onto his chest as it fought to release its jaws, and it burned through his thin shirt, right to his skin. The acid ate at him, and he screamed, hoping and praying that Sellarin would try to help him. The Lurker yanked its head back and forth, ripping its jaw free, then leaned in again to snap at his head. This time he kicked it in the teeth, making the beast yelp in pain and shake its head. But it wouldn’t be deterred from its meal, and grabbed onto Llyn’s leg, sinking its jagged teeth in. 

It picked him up off the group, his calf crunched tightly in its teeth, and his body swinging from its mouth. He yelled and screamed. The pain was excruciating, but the fear was worse.He didn’t want to die, not like this. Not alone in the desert, away from his home, his friends, his life. He fought with everything he had in him, kicking at the lurker’s neck with his free foot, and pulling himself up towards the jaws, punching as hard as he could to try to get it to release his leg. Llyn refused to die like this. He wouldn’t be run over and walked over and end right now. He would make it let go. 

And it did. 

its jaws went slack and Llyn dropped to the ground with a hard thud. He tried to push off the dune to get away from the lurker, but the beast crashed to the ground next to him, uttering an inhuman groan into the golden sands. It was a death cry, and the lurker’s heaving chest stopped, and its legs went limp. Llyn’s own chest hurt from his panicked breath, but he was alive. 

“Great Huntress! Sister to the Moon! Blessed Andruil!” he yelled into desert storm that night, as his body fell back into the sand in pain and exhaustion. His patron had saved him. She had heard his prayers and reached Her Hand out and struck down the lurker. She had found him, even in this blasted land. 

“Thought you’d steal my kill, lethallin?” a voice rose over the pounding winds of the storm.

It was mocking and new, not Sellarin. He leaned his head back and saw another elf standing near him. Her clothing was loose and light, and her bow was decorated with the Eternal Flame of Sylaise. On her waist hung a sabre, the hilt carved from ivory of a gurn, and copper accents adorned her uniform. The striking vallaslin of Falon’din sat on her face, and her piercing, dark eyes bore through him. 

More elves emerged from the storm behind her, and the huntress walked past his wounded body towards the dead lurker. She leaned over its head, and pulled an arrow out that had been embedded in its eye. Llyn realized that was how it had died, and he was suddenly in a lot of pain for it. His leg throbbed, his chest burned, and his entire body was stiff. 

But they’d found them. Clan Abersher’al.

“It looks like he’s from Lavellan,” one of the hunters pointed out to the woman who made the kill, “He’s got their weapons, at least.”

“its definitely Master Vhannas’ work,” she agreed, “But the other one is Diceni. Odd pair to be traveling here.”

“I, ugh,” Llyn winced as he tried to sit up, “I can explain.”

“How about explaining who you are,” the woman said sharply, “We’ve had no messages about Lavellan and Diceni crossing into our hunting grounds.”

He reached into his belt, pulling out the sealed letter he’d been hanging onto since they left the Free Marches.

“I’m Llyn of Clan Lavellan, head scout and Leader of the Ethinan. I was sent by the Maiden of the Hunt to deliver a message to The Blood of the Embers,” he held up the seal to show them. The wax depicted a crude hare, the symbol of the Maiden, and the huntress snatched the missive away from him to get a closer look. She ran her fingers over the seal, squinting her eyes, before shoving it into her own belt. 

“Must be important if she sent one of the Ethinan instead of a bird," she commented wryly, "Alright, someone help him up. I'll let Ellya deal with him."

"What about the Diceni? We already sent her ahead for questioning," one of the hunters asked.

"She's with me!" Llyn blurted out as two of them lifted him up off the ground.

"Another thing the Blood can deal with. I don't want any _'diplomatic incidents'_ again," the woman remarked, "Let's go."

The troupe of hunters set out over the sand dunes, two them propping Llyn up as his struggled with his leg. To his luck, the storm quieted, and the howling wind died down to nothing but a quiet breeze. The air of the desert night was cool, and though his leg felt as if it might fall off, there he still felt a small sense of relief. 

Thankfully, they hadn’t travelled very far before the smell of smoke and halla filled the air, and the great billowing pavilions of Clan Abersher'al filled the horizon. In the middle of the camp, tall palms rose around the dark blue waters of the spring, and the clan's herd crowded there to drink. Not far from the water, Llyn could see the Great Hearth, the central point of worship with Abersher'al, a fire that traveled with the clan. The Blood of the Embers was a scion of Sylaise, and the clan worshipped Her with great fervor. It was strange and foreign, though they were his own people, and Llyn marveled at how different they could be. 

"Put him with the Diceni and give them something to eat and drink," the huntress leading the troupe ordered them, "I'll have someone come look at his leg."

The hunters grunted their affirmation, and helped guide him towards a small tent near the edge of the camp. It was a standard woven canvas covering, but ropes interwoven with copper and lazurite beads hung over the top, creating a gently _tinging_ noise in the cool desert breeze. They pulled back the canvas entrance and led him inside.

Sellarin was already there, sprawled out on the brightly colored pillows on the floor, gnawing at a piece of meat that she had plucked out of a earthenware bowl. The hunters set him down next to her, and were kind enough to prop his leg up to alleviate some of the pain before leaving. He gently thanked them, though they gave no response in return.

"Wow, that's going to leave a scar," Sellarin said after they had gone. She picked up a jug and poured what looked like halla milk into a mug for him. He took it thankfully and drank deeply. It was milk, though heavily spiced. It made his head swim.

"No thanks to you," he responded bitterly and he lowered his mug, "You left me out there to get eaten!"

She chewed loudly on the mystery meat in the bowl, "Well, the mission fails if we both get eaten."

"Ugh," he grunted, then settled himself into the cushions. The halla milk had made him tired. Or maybe it was the lurker. His eyes felt heavy either way, "You'd have been shit out of luck if my missive from Elain would've ended up in a lurker belly."

"I would've thought of something," she brushed him off, "Besides, you had it all under control."

"No, I didn't," he mumbled tiredly, closing his eyes, "I'll remember this."

"Sure you will, buddy," she replied, but he barely heard it. 

Sleep was already overcoming him and he welcomed it gladly.

\--

"And this is all he had?" 

Ellya reclined lazily on the plush cushions of her pavilion, the thin gauze of her dress letting her skin breathe in the scorching morning air. She dipped her fingertips in a copper bowl next to her filled with perfumed water, and let the droplets fall onto her face and chest while the clan’s head scout, Tala, paced in front of her. 

"All that we saw, yes. And my Ethinan searched him discreetly as they brought him into camp. Nothing hidden either."

"Hmmm," she chewed on her lip then closed her eyes. The seal on the letter from Elain was authentic, and she recognized her friend's handwriting. The fine, small print laid out a dire situation in need of attention that the Maiden could not give, as she was distracted with Keeper Paeris’ arrival to her own clan. The fact that the dire situation stemmed from Keeper Paeris’ clan did not miss Ellya’s notice.

"Lavellan's scout isn't the one we need to worry about," Tala warned her ominously as her heavy footfalls thumped on the impacted sand of the floor, "it’s the one he brought with him."

"The Diceni?" she asked her as she pondered over the letter. It was an urgent request, and the reward of a favor for a favor seemed...lacking. Perhaps Elain’s pregnancy had truly diminished whatever pull she had within the clans, and this was the best she could give. It worried Ellya. She remembered the difficulty she had carrying her own child, but she was surrounded by supportive family and clan members. Her pregnancy had been a joyous occasion. She couldn’t imagine having to endure being ostracized and isolated because of it.

"Yes. Though I don't think she's Diceni at all," she posited, "She looks very familiar to me, though I can't place where."

"I doubt the Maiden would be trying to sabotage us," Ellya commented as she reached to drip more water on her hot, dry skin, filling the air with its redolence, "She seems to want to intervene on an injustice she believes her brother has committed."

"Then why not handle it herself?" Tala questioned, "Unless Lavellan's Council decided against it. Or unless she wants us to do her dirty work and keep her hands clean."

"She wouldn't ask that of me," she argued gently, yet firmly, "I know her. But it would not hurt to question these scouts further."

Tala stopped her pacing and looked down on Ellya’s reclining body, and she crooked her finger towards her, urging the scout to join her. She did so reluctantly at first, but as she drew close to her, her reluctance gave way to tenderness. She ran her fingertips over the trails of scented water that clung to her skin, then placed gentle kisses over them.

"I just want you to be careful," Tala spoke her concern into her corded neck, "I don't want to see you hurt by the Maiden’s scheming."

She placed her hand gently under Tala’s chin, then pressed her lips into hers softly.

"You worry too much," she whispered into her mouth.

"Someone has to," Tala whispered back as she wrapped her hands tightly around her waist. Ellya pulled her down further into the cushions with her, running her hands under her shirt and massaging her breasts underneath as she stroked her tongue feverishly. They pressed their bodies together, contorting and twisting to fit each other’s shape, and found joy in each other as they lazily peeled back their clothing and discovered the secrets underneath.

Perhaps Tala was right. Perhaps she should be more mindful of her friend’s request. She didn’t truly believe Elain would sacrifice Clan Abersher’al’s standing to further her own, and yet…

Ellya blinked away the thoughts and allowed herself to get lost in the languorous morning. The concerns of the present seemed far and away from the Blood of the Ember’s mind as she whimpered her lover's name. 

\---

Carnation Street was much longer than Elain had anticipated. They’d been walking for nearly a half hour trying to reach Tulip Way, quietly avoiding the deep puddles of water from the spring rains in the delta of the Minanter. The gravel of the street still rustled under their feet, and Deshanna’s mage light cast an eerie glow over the abandoned shanties lining the street. 

Occasionally, they would see bright eyes catching the light of the magic, illuminated in the dark homes, only for them to scurry quickly back into the darkness. It made the remnants of a once bustling alienage look feral, wild. Utterly lost.

“Guess Yemet didn’t send everyone,” Sal muttered to himself as another pair of eyes darted down a side alleyway, its owner’s footsteps making a loud _clack clack clack_ that echoed over the empty passageway.

“These poor people,” Deshanna said in a hushed whisper, “Terrible things have happened here.”

“Yeah,” Sal responded quietly, his focus centered on his own footsteps on the desolate street. He was abnormally quiet as they made their way slowly towards the Merchant's district, the weight of what happened here weighing heavily on him. Elain knew the feeling of responsibility and the burdens that came with it. She would pity him if it weren't for the fact that she knew he would hate it with all his was. 

Better to give him the grudging respect he deserved. He had tried to help, and it came too late. The fault wasn't on him, but he would carry it anyways. It was something worthy of admiration. Elain wished more of her hunters carried that same humbleness. 

"That's the end of the street," Rin pointed out, her finger directed towards an avenue that crossed over the end of Carnation Street. The avenue ran left and right, with a large wall separating the alienage from the human district on the other side. 

"Take a left up there. It'll lead us to Tulip Way," Sal instructed, and the group followed him unquestioningly.

The avenue was wider than Carnation street and grew even wider as the shanties and built up shacks spread out, making way for a courtyard that housed a large tree. It was massive for a city tree, it's trunk thick and hearty, and it's branches stretched higher than the walls. Brightly colored pieces of ribbon and cloth hung from the ends of those branches, and the roots had been painted in vibrant red and white designs. They swirled and curved around the tree and seemed just as natural of the sentinel itself. A far cry from the art the Dalish produced, but a whisper of their past nevertheless.

" _The Vhenadahl,_ " Sal introduced it reverently, and the entire group paused to admire it for a moment. The situation was dire, and time was of the essence, but there were some rituals that could not be thrown away lightly. 

Keeper Deshanna pressed her palm against the smooth part and sighed deeply, and Elain felt herself compelled to do the same. There was a patina on the wood from being touched by children learning to climb, lover's making promises on their only temple, by elders leaning against it when the summer sun beat down on their heads and they needed some shade. It was a well-loved reminder of who these elves were. 

And who they still are. 

"Who goes there!"

A voice interrupted the quiet moment when the keepers of the lost lore came face to face with the new stories being told. It seemed to climb over the high stone walls and slink its way into the quiet clearing, breaking the spell they had been momentarily put under. 

When Elain turned her head towards to the voice, she saw frightened faces of humans squatting on top of the walls, flanking either side of a great wooden gate on the other side of the courtyard. They held torches in their hands, and their faces looked fearful in the dim light.

"Rhian? Rhian, is that you?" Sal moved to the other side of the tree, closer to the gate, his guard down. Elain signaled two of her hunters, and their hands silently loaded arrows into their bows. 

"Sal!" the man on the wall cried back to the bartender, "Maker bless these old bones, I'm so glad to see you! We heard so much noise and screams coming from there a couple of days ago, and haven't heard anything since!"

"Noises? Screams? From where?" he asked the man on the wall.

"From right where you're standing, you lout!"

Sal looked slowly down under his feet, and Elain's gaze fell there as well. Deshanna gasped next to her and grabbed her hand, squeezing it in hers.

"Mythal preserve us all," she said as she flickered her magelight to make it beam brighter, illuminating the scorch marks and stained blood covering the cobblestone of the courtyard. 

It was everywhere. Bits and pieces of burnt flesh embedded into the stone, wet puddles of the blood pooling in potholes in the avenue, but no bodies to be found. Donovan's mercenaries had come and slaughtered what they could, then took the remains to do gods know what. It was terrible.

Sal bent over, brushing aside some burnt cloth, then jumped back as if something bit him.

"Shit," he said frightfully, he face going pale. 

Elain moved towards what had scared him so much, Deshanna coming with her and gripping her hand even tighter, but the quiet whispers scratching at the insides of her ears told her everything she needed to know. 

_Do you know suffering?_

Tiny shards of red lyrium jutting out from a piece of a bone that had been left behind.

_You will know it soon._

It glowed and pulsed, just like in the Catacombs, but much quieter here. It did not overwhelm her as it did in the stagnant depths.

_He will fail and She will collect what is Hers._

As she leaned over to inspect it, Elain could see that the shards were not just lying in the broken bone, but rather, growing from inside of it.

_The Price is always paid. The Debt is always collected._

Elain pulled back the cloth over the bone, and the whispers faded into the gentle sound of the ocean breeze in her ear. Deshanna helped her up from the ground, and she dusted off her skirts. She was quite cold as well, and pulled her cloak tighter against her. 

It was growing out of the bone. Eating it, like a mass of worms feasts on a corpse. This was worse than she could have ever anticipated. 

"What's going on Sal? What do you see?" Rhian called from up on the safety of his wall. Sal wiped his face in his shirt, attempting to hide the tears that had started to pour out of his eyes, then looked back up on the cowering humans.

"The reason this whole city has gone belly up," he called back, his voice nearly breaking, "You better get down here. We gotta have a conversation."

\---

"And you made sure everything is set up?" Lokka asked him impatiently as they stood on the fortified walls of the Nacre Palace. His cigar was stale and made the sea air feel stale too, like dusty salt. It left a bitter taste on Donovan's tongue.

"Yes," he replied, "Though they came with more than we expected."

"Who gives a shit? There's enough of our men to stop anything they try," Lokka leaned against the wet stone, looking down into the deep moat and its black waters. Not black anymore, really. Almost red.

"It was a gamble to begin with leading them here. We'll see if it paid off," was all he could respond with. Donovan was tired. The kind of exhaustion that sunk into his bones and made it hard to even stand up.

"You better start having a more upbeat attitude kid," the dwarf warned him, "If the Duke doesn't get what he wants, then your wife doesn't get to leave here. And I'd hate to see poor Maddie grow up without her mommy."

"Is she even alive?" He hadn't seen her or Rita in weeks. The plague had left them quarantined on Poppy Avenue.

"Trust me, she's still there...and safe, for now. But I promise you it won't stay that way if you fuck me out of my coin," Lokka flung the butt of his cigar over the edge of the walls and into the water below, "Understood?"

Donovan nodded, "Understood."

"Good," Lokka pat him on the back before walking towards the nearby stairwell, "Get some rest kid. You got a big day tomorrow."

He watched the dwarf's head disappear down the stairwell, then sighed as he leaned into the ancient stone. It began to rain again as he did, but it always rained here. That was nothing new. 

The only thing new was the glimmer of torchlight and reflection of it off the weapons of a small army of elves marching through the Bazaar. Only a few more hours before he had to face it. Until then, he'd wait for the sun to rise and try to remember his father's face.

 


	32. Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elven warband break into Poppy Avenue, only to find it desolate.

“I don’t like this. It’s too quiet.”

Aneth’ail steadied his breath as the twitchy Guildmaster expressed his doubts of their progression once again. It was becoming tiresome. He needed to stay focused and sharp, and every interruption from Yemet was a moment that could undo him. 

“Shhh,” Revas shushed Yemet absently, earning him a disgruntled huff, but the Shadow paid him no mind. He continued his purposeful march, bow in hand, a heartbeat away from being drawn if the need arose. So far, there had been no need.

Despite his inability to keep silent while their warband attempted to infiltrate the heart of the city, he was correct in his observations. The sprawling marketplace of the Bazaar was all but empty, with only rats and vagabonds scurrying between the dark stone administrative buildings, peering their noses out to watch them cross under the great wooden lattice of the central part of the market. It smelled of cedar and spices from the goods abandoned at the tables and knocked over onto the cobblestone ground, but the pungency of rotting vegetables and fish permeated through the air, mingled into a noxious cloud of decay. 

Many of the hunters tied scarves over their faces to block the smell, but it was of no use. Wycome itself was rotting from the inside out. The Veil was thin, pulled so tightly by the corruption and death that plagued the empty passages of the ancient walls, that spirits breaking through and raising the dead was no surprise. It was still unsettling, however, and Aneth’ail felt it keenly. The strange lyrium continued to haunt him, and he felt it whispering in his ear at every turn. 

There were promises of power, promises of mutilation, promises of torture and pain. They were always the same, though the red lyrium amplified the voices like an empty canyon. The words echoed in his mind, and if he lost his focus for too long, it would be all too simple for them to overtake him. _Not yet_ , he attempted to keep calm, _it’s not time yet._

“That’s the entrance into Poppy Avenue, I assume?” his father questioned Yemet as they left the safety of the wooden lattices of the market and back into the open courtyard of the Bazaar. The sun began to rise over the horizon behind them, lighting the polished brass hardware of the heavy gates leading into the richest parts of Wycome.

“Yeah. And looks like they have it locked up tight,” Yemet pointed to the wooden doors boarded and barricaded, “Wasn’t like that last week when I was in the Bazaar. But they hadn’t locked down the districts to quarantine the plague either then.”

“What can we expect on the other side?” Revas asked him as he eyed up the daunting gateway, then signaling for Lavellan’s hunters to halt their march behind him. 

“Usually? A wide ass road full of commerce going in and out of the Nacre Palace,” Yemet replied, crossing his arms over his chest, “But now? Who knows.”

“Any ideas on how to get onto that road?” the Shadow pressed him as he stared up at their current obstacle.

“Just one.”

Yemet whistled loudly at another one of his guild members. The runner nodded at him, motioned for two others to follow him, and they took off in a sprint to a nearby building. It was boarded up and locked, but no match for a group of thieves. After a minute of jostling, the wooded door to the stone building flung open and they disappeared inside. 

“What are they doing?” he asked Yemet with confusion. He shrugged lightly.

“Getting some friends from one of our caches.”

After a moment, the three thieves emerged again carrying heavy crates. They jogged back to the front lines of the warband and set the crates down at Yemet’s feet. He bent over, pulling out a glass bottle, then rolled it in his hand a bit. The fluid inside was dark and viscous at the bottom, and lighter and more watery at the top. It was some sort of mixture, and Aneth’ail was perplexed at what the thieves planned on using those bottles for.

“Go pull down some of those linen hangings,” he directed a nearby Diceni, and the hunter looked to Threlen for approval. The Warlord furrowed his brow, but nodded, and the hunter yanked down a deep blue cloth hanging from an abandoned market stall. He handed it off to Yemet, who set his bottle down and took it.

Pulling a knife from the belt at his waist, Yemet began to cut the blue hanging into strips. They ran the length of the hanging and were slightly thin, but not overly so. Then, he cut the long pieces in half, then those in half again. He laid the pile of cloth down next to him and leaned over the crates of bottles. He uncorked one of them, then stuffed the strip of linen in the bottleneck and tilted it to the cloth was soaked. Once it was, he handed the bottle to Revas. 

He did the same for the rest of the bottles in the crates, and motioned for his runners to help him. After a few moments, every single bottle had been stuffed, and Aneth’ail made guesses as to what they could be used for now. Yemet passed the bottles down the line, making sure to give one to Threlen as well as himself. 

“Tinjim,” Yemet called to the runner, “Grab some of that paper in the Overseer’s stall. Shove it under the doors and in the gap between them. Hurry up.”

“Right Boss,” this Tinjim affirmed the order, then ran over to a small wooden stall near the administrative buildings flanking the doors to Poppy Avenue. He emerged with armfuls of rolled parchment; possibly contracts and permits for the market vendors. Tinjim did as he was told and shoved the parchment in all the crevices of the door, then quickly returned to the waiting ranks. 

“Now watch carefully, halla shit eaters,” he grabbed the torch out of the other runner’s hand, “You’re about to see how the Thieve’s Guild gets stuff done.”

He lowered the torch to the end of the cloth hanging out of the bottle, and when it ignited, he swiftly threw the makeshift grenade over the high wooden doors. They heard, rather than saw, the glass break, and felt the slight rumble of something on the other side igniting. The other guild members in the front ranks followed Yemet’s lead, lighting their bottles and flinging them over the door, only a few of them receiving any blowback from the rigged grenade. 

_Crack. Crack. Crack_. Each one shattered elegantly on Poppy Avenue, creating an almost melodious tune, and the black, thick smoke that rose from the opposite side of the door swirled and dipped like a dancer. It was a beautiful performance in its own right, and reminded Aneth’ail of the summer plays the Diceni tale spinners reenacted during Elgar’nan’s holy week. 

Revas grunted and tossed his own bottle over, as well as his father, and once the makeshift grenades were spent, they stood quietly with only the crackling fire to fill the morning air.

“Clever,” the Warlord complimented Yemet, “I've seen similar styles of weaponry produced in the borders of Tevinter. That you made it yourselves is impressive."

"Someone's gotta take care of us," Yemet did not accept the compliment, "And we can't trust other people to do it. Elf or not."

The warband watched in silence as the great wooden doors leading into Poppy Avenue and the noble district became engulfed in flame. Smaller houses on the inside of the gates looked as if they had caught fire as well. It would more than likely spread, and this district would need to rebuild. Humans usually had the coin to do so.

What concerned him was the silence. It was still eerily quiet, even as the gate securing the nobles of Wycome started to buckle under its damage and fall apart. No one had come to stop the burning. No one had come to try to fortify the gate. No one had even peeked their head over the wall. 

But Aneth'ail felt something. It was not as strong as the Catacombs, but the pulsing thrum of corruption they had found there touched his skin and set him on edge. The Veil was thin over this entire city, but it seemed to leak and bleed through here. 

A rumble of thunder broke him out of his thoughts, and he looked to the sky to see a storm rolling in from the sea. The wind picked up, and the scent of petrichor was added to the smoke and rot of the Bazaar. It was not long before the heavens opened and rain poured down from the sky, wholly serendipitous since the wooden gates were nothing more than embers and ash now. 

Warlord Threlen ordered some hunters to tear the gate down the rest of the way, and they did so quickly. The downpour extinguished some of the smaller fires, but the blaze that spread to some of the houses continued to eat the homes like food. That was none of their concern. They needed to move. Lingering anywhere in this city was an invitation for more incidents like the Catacombs.

Once the doors were no longer an obstacle, the vast, wide road that was Poppy Avenue was laid out before them. It was twice the width of even the largest streets Aneth'ail had encountered, and flanked with tall, wrought iron lamps that were covered in climbing ivy. Poppy Avenue itself was paved in stone; clean, perfect marble welcomed the prestigious guests that would make their way to the Nacre Palace. The homes further down the road turned from wood, to limestone, and then finally, marble leading to the palace. There were elaborate terraces covered in spring flowers, and marble fountains dotting the Avenue itself. It was decadent and starkly rich compared to the rest of the city, and utterly, _utterly_ abandoned. 

Or so it seemed at first sight. The silence was deafening. No baby cried, no pack mules brayed, no articulate debates could be heard from the small amphitheatre that rose over some of the marble estates. It was as if every man, woman, and child had left the city.

"Lavellan! On my mark!" Revas shouted over his company of hunters, and they drew their bows in unison. The Warlord rallied his hunters as well, while Yemet gave no orders. The Guild members merely readied the weapons they had and gathered round their leader. 

"How should we go in?" Aneth'ail asked his father as he tried to memorize the layout of Poppy Avenue. 

"We should send scouts out. Or at least let Bellakar fly overhead to see if there is any hidden danger," Threlen raised his forearm slightly and his golden eagle made a small noise in response. 

"Look," Yemet motioned towards the end of Poppy Avenue, "The drawbridge is down. It won't stay that way if they see folks moving around there. Better that we go in and overwhelm them before they can draw the bridge up."

"I agree," Revas stated, "Lavellan has shield-bearers we can move to the front of our archers. The archers will put down any threats from the back ranks and the Diceni can act as shock troops to fortify the shield bearers."

"A shield wall will do little good here," Threlen argued, "The avenue is too wide and we don't have enough bearers to make a difference for the bulk of the hunters. If we aren't taking the time to scout ahead, we must plan cautiously."

"What do you suggest?" Aneth'ail asked his father. 

"A standard formation. Let the shield bearers shoot their bows until they can't any longer. Same with the shock troops. Our eyes and ears are better than any mercenaries. We can count on that."

"I'll take the guild through the side streets," Yemet cut in, "We work best in close quarters. Can move easier and every one of us here knows this district backwards and forwards."

"Do as you must," Threlen answered him, "But we should not delay any longer unless we plan to scout the area out."

The impromptu committee agreed, and orders were given again for the hunters to get in formation. With a sense of anxiety and the push of the Veil upon his skin, Aneth'ail took a deep breath and walked through the now charred gateway of Poppy Avenue. 

Somehow he expected there to be some malicious force to take over him once he passed through the threshold, but the deepening well of magic that grew stronger with each step was something he was familiar with. Familiar with from many, many battles where many, many people had died. This was no battleground. Not in the present, at least.

They moved past the slowly burning houses, watching as the heavy rain made the smoke billow out white instead of black, then towards the richer parts of the district. The marble avenue was slick from the rain, but still navigable, though it would make a fight difficult. It did not matter in the moment. There didn't seem to be anyone to fight.

Yemet and his guild members slinked into the dark alleys once they passed the threshold and he could see them at times out of the corner of his eye. A swift shadow moving between limestone houses and buildings, then disappearing as quickly as they came. Their paths had not been obstructed. _Was there truly no one left?_

"I don't like this," Revas said softly at his side, the muscles in his neck tense, "There should be something or someone here."

"Maybe they all moved to the palace?" Twig, the friend of the Banal'ras suggested.

"Or maybe they're all dead," he answered back ominously. 

Aneth'ail did not think they were, but there was no denying something terrible had happened. 

As the limestone buildings gave way to the marble estates of the nobility in the city, he feared they would walk into the Nacre Palace and find nothing there. Not even bones marked this place. It was empty, empty, empty.

"Hold," he said suddenly. It had been slight, but the Veil shifted abruptly, stretching against something. He felt it on his skin, at the tips of his ears, in the taste in his mouth. Turning his head towards the source of the disturbance, he recognized something frail and gaunt; nearly a ghost in its form. 

A human.

A human, but pale as the snowy peaks on the Steppes. So pale he could see the blood moving through their veins, feel it moving. The human was a young man, eyes sunken, pallor clammy, and his silk clothes filth-ridden and torn. He stood shakily near a fountain just off of Poppy Avenue, and he stared at the warband with haunted eyes.

Eyes that emanated red light, dripping with black smoke like tears, and pulsing in time with the blood pumping through the human's body. Aneth'ail could feel it keenly, as if it were lyrium coursing through his own veins, but this was different. Corrupted. 

The human stood silently, his head cocking to the side, and shaking like a sistrum. He was ill. The entire city was ill. A festering wound that must be cauterized.

_Let go._

The whispers began to invade his ears again, dull but not ignorable.

_Let it take you._

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Threlen asked the human. Its head shook more rapidly, no answer allowed to leave his throat.

_Your hatred for what was given burns deeply._

"This is not right," Revas said again, more alarmed this time, his bow cocked and aimed at the human’s heart, “What’s going on in this shithole?”

_Let go of it. Let there be an end._

The whispers were getting louder. A hunter's yell turned his attention away from the corrupted human, and what he saw was frightening.

_You want it to end, don't you, My Hand?_

More humans, lining up on Poppy Avenue now, the same corruption dripping from them as the young man. Some groaned, some collapsed, then got back up, but they were all covered with decay.

_Cut your throat and let it in._

“Great All Father,” Threlen whispered hoarsely, “What happened to them?”

The hunters spoke in hushed tones, their fear painting their words. Some even jerked away from a human that appeared from behind them, nearly tripping over their own feet in that fear.

_Spill the blood you are indebted to Me._

The whispers were now echoing calls, and Aneth’ail struggled to keep his composure. He steadied his breathing, and looked up at the sky as he attempted to center himself. It helped somewhat, but the infernal words that haunted his waking and sleeping hours stayed with him.

When his heart rate slowed and he lowered his eyes again, he caught a glimpse of some glimmer on the roof of one of the noble’s estates. It was only a split second, but it was enough time to know.

His barrier went up around him and those surrounding him right away, and the volley of arrows from the roof of the estate fell a breath later. The mercenaries who fired them stood up from their posts, and sent another volley.

They had walked right into an ambush.

“OUT OF THE OPEN!” Revas bellowed to his hunters, while the Diceni fell back into a side road leading off Poppy Avenue with the speed of their soldier’s training. 

They were stopped by Yemet and his guild members sprinting out of the darkness of the side alley. 

“They’re flanking us on all sides!” he shouted over the panicked warband, “We need to do something!”

The Thieves Guild burst back onto Poppy Avenue and behind them was a fully armed company of soldiers, cutting down the stragglers. Aneth’ail’s barriers were fading, and he waved his armed to reinstate them. He could not hold them for long if he needed to fight. 

“Lavellan! Take out the archers!” the Shadow commanded over the maelstrom, and order in the ranks reinstated itself as they loaded their bows and fired a volley of arrows back at the archers that had been hiding. 

The Shadow himself unloaded his bow several times, taking out at least three of the mercenaries on the roofs above them, while his father barked orders for the Diceni to fall into formation against the mercenaries coming from the south. He kept the barriers up and attempted to bring down concentrated bolts of lightning, but the hunters themselves may be harmed if it arced in this wet terrain.

It just wasn’t enough. Another troupe emerged from the way they came, running full speed down Poppy Avenue, their weapons raised and ready to engage, taking their back ranks by surprise. Just not enough. 

The warband was outnumbered and surrounded. They hadn’t even made it to the Nacre Palace, and if something wasn’t done, they never would. Aneth’ail took a deep breath, knowing what his duty was, though he had hoped he wouldn’t need to call upon the Earth Shaker so soon. 

“Cover me!” he yelled the request, hoping someone would hear, but had no time to wait for affirmation. He fell to the ground, closed his eyes, and invited the Fade inside of him.

\---

_The White Heath reacted to him when he arrived. The expansive brambles --full of those damnable thorns-- creeped and crawled along the land he tread, leaving inking blackness against in their wake. The darkness marred the landscape. It was endless horizons of land bleached white by the sun, like a pile of bones, and even the creeping brambles twisted and crumbled in their stark dryness. The Sun overhead was always blinding, and always white. It seared the land, leaving everything white, everything hot. All but for the blackness._

_The blackness followed Aneth’ail as he made his journey, licking and burning at his heels, inviting him to allow it inside of him. Every time it did so, more brambles were born, climbing up his legs and impaling with their sharp, dead thorns. They slowed him with their excruciating pain, but he was conditioned to endure it. The White Heath was nothing but pain, but the rewards it had given him for his persistence had outweighed any anguish it caused._

_Eventually, the brambles grew thicker and thicker, until the Heath was covered in it’s blinding thicket. He pushed his way through it, shuddering when he felt the bugs leaping from the branches and onto his skin, their wings beating against their hard carapaces. In the stark whiteness of the Heath, these scarabs were gold, and always a malevolent force. They whispered secrets to him that he was not to hear, offered him power, drove his lust, stoked his anger._

_“Come with me Aneth’ail,” one landed on his ear, it’s antennae flicking against his lobe, “I will give you what you desire above all.”_

_“No,” he continued to push through the thicket._

_“Don’t you want release from your isolation more than all things? I can give it to you. I will bury myself in your chest and eat until you feel nothing anymore. What a meal your tender heart will make.”_

_“Leave me,” he said hoarsely. There was a blinding light beginning to shine through the dense brambles, and he was thankful. Each time he reached into this place, it was getting harder and harder to resist the demonic powers the resided here. They felt as alive as any creature in the waking world._

_At last the thicket gave way, and he pushed the brambles out of his path and entered the clearing they had protected. The bleached ground still remained, but in the center stood the Colossus. An impossibly tall, impossibly large elf that sat in suspension on His Throne. The Throne was covered in the bleached brambles, curving and spiraling towards the sky, and locking His wrists in place on the armrests. The dark fingers of the Colossus dug into the wooden Throne, nails forever biting into the cedar. His Feet grew into the ground like great tree trunks, anchoring Him further. The brambles crawled out of His Chest where a great wooden pillar had been erected inside. Or impaled inside. Aneth’ail pretended he did not know, but the second wooden pillar struck deep down the Colossus’ throat was an indication that this deed had not been done out of worship._

_Past the wooden pillar standing in the Colossus’ mouth were His Eyes. They were not eyes as mortals knew them. Where once semi-fluid flesh would be, instead, the Colossus possessed solid gold orbs that glowed with a light from within. It pierced the whiteness of the Heath just as poignantly as the inky blackness, but when Aneth’ail approached Him, the light warmed and filled him with immense pleasure instead of pain._

_The Colossus could not move, could not form words entrapped as He was, but He still spoke. When Aneth’ail climbed the dias that led to His mighty form, the Earth shook under his feet and He spoke like thunder._

**_“Does My Hand wish to reach out?”_ **

**__**Aneth’ail bowed on the dais, his blood pooling under his knees, “I am Your Vessel. Reach through me.”

_The light of the Golden Eyes glowed brighter and brighter, until it filled the entire glade, touching the wings of the ornate scarabs and turning them translucent. He could see all their inner working, until that too faded, and they became nothing but radiant wisps that swarmed around the Colossus. They touched Aneth’ail and filled him with His Purpose, His Will. The Hand felt full._

_**“Invite Vengeance into you, My Hand.”** _

**__**The Heath shook and cracked under His Voice, and Aneth’ail raised his hands towards the white Sun, welcoming the burning consumption it provided inside of him.

_“Fill me. Fill me. Fill me. Fill me,” he chanted the words as an incantation, and the prayer was entered. One of the most radiant scarabs turned phantom pulsed with power and flowed into him, pressing against his insides until there was nothing left._

_He had called, and Vengeance had come._

_\---_

The last archer fell to Revas’ bow, but the situation was dire. They were surrounded. Completely and totally surrounded with no way out. The mercenaries fought like demons, swinging their weapons without any grace or concern, merely trying to cut down any elves that they could. Revas pulled this axe from his waist and blocked a blow that was meant for one of the younger hunters near him, then watched as the young hunter buried his dagger in the mercenary’s stomach. Safe for now.

“Twig, pull them in! I’ll get to the other side and see if I can clear a path to the Palace!”

“If you leave me here to die, Shem’assan, I’ll come back and haunt your ass!” Twig yelled as Revas pushed his way past the hunters forming rank around his friend. He gave a laugh at his levity in the face of Death, but quickly turned his attention back to the Nacre Palace.

If they could clear a path there, the warband could cross the drawbridge and maybe close it up behind them. But the soldiers were blocking that way. They were concentrated the most in the east, the direction of Nacre Palace, and if Lavellan wanted to get in, he’d have to knock really fucking hard.

The hunters thinned out towards the east, most of them just trying to hold ground as the mercenaries pommelled them. They held their meager shields, but their ranks were starting to break. He found a weak point near Arthwyn and inserted himself in quickly, hoping to fortify it enough for some kind of surge.

A nasty looking shemlen with rotting teeth and red, sunken eyes snarled at him as he swung his sword down towards his head. Revas caught the blow in the face of his axe, then pushed back the mercenary with a swift kick in the gut. The merc dropped his weapon and fell, and he took the opportunity to make the kill. A clean swipe with his axe, then falling back before anyone saw the break in the formation, until the next shem tried to take him out. 

“The Hand is preparing!” he heard Warlord Threlen’s gruff voice over the melee, and hope sprung up in Revas’ chest. He hated magic, didn’t trust it, but he wouldn’t say no to it saving his ass right now. 

“Watch out!” a blow came down hard on Arthwyn, and Revas helped him deflect it with his shield before cutting the weapon out of the shem’s hand.

“Thanks,” Arthwyn breathed, then readied his shield again. He nodded then returned to his stance, just trying to stay alive until Aneth’ail did...something. 

It was something alright. 

The earth under their feet began to tremble. The hunters and mercenaries alike were left trying to hold their balance, and Revas knew it would be an exercise in futility. They needed to get out of the way. He pushed Arthwyn, and the line of hunters toppled like cards, the whole unit falling to the ground. The marble street was breaking apart under their bodies, and while the humans attempted to hold their ground, the hunters from both clans scrambled to reach the alleyways. They knew what was in store, and knew well enough to get out of the way.

As the last hunter he could see fell back and crowded into the damp alley just off Poppy Avenue, he turned to watch the very street fall apart before his very eyes. Aneth’ail was wrapped in a cloak of lightning, bolts of it arcing off him and into the cowering humans, hitting their bodies indiscriminately, making them scream in pain. 

“Don’t just stand there! Take the mage out!” one of them cried from their ranks, and several of them pulled out their bows to shoot at Aneth’ail. 

The arrows plinked off his barrier like flies too close to a fire, dropping dead in the sky, but the humans continued to try to hit him with everything they had. It only angered the Hand.

 **“Pestilence on this world!”** The Hand cried, his voice booming like thunder, his eyes glowing bright blue and penetrating blue light leaving his mouth as well, “ **You will know Wrath! You will feel Vengeance!”**

He grabbed for the tapered staff he wore on his back but rarely used, and with a great surge of electrical power, filled the air with magic as he moved the staff artfully in his hands. It arced and connected with bodies, a chain that spanned the whole area, making those closest to him convulse and seize as it took over bodies. An intense blue light as bright as his face filled that staff, pulsing and pumping like a heartbeat, spinning and spinning and reaching for some height, some peak. It made Revas’ head pound with the magic, and he covered his ears in an attempt to make it stop.

At last, the pulsing of the staff became a blinding light, and Aneth’ail slammed it against the ground with a force that startled all the elves watching. The magic dispersed over Poppy Avenue, sending the strongest electrical surge yet, so powerful that Revas could smell the humans bodies cooking from the inside out. Half of them lie dead and smoking on the ground, and the others crying in agony as their burns melted off their skin. It was gruesome, even for him.

He hated magic, hated it, if only because this is what one possessed mage could do. 

The shemlen had enough and began to retreat towards the Nacre Palace. Those who were far enough away from the magic ran as fast as they could, some dropping their weapons to get more speed. Others limped behind them clumsily, their panicked shouts begging their comrades to help them. They were quickly dispatched by the hunter’s arrows.

The warband threw up a great cheer at the victory, ecstatic to return from the brink of Death, but he did not feel their relief.

“He overextended himself,” Threlen spoke next to him, pointing to a weakened Aneth’ail falling to his knees as he regained control over himself, “We can’t depend on him once we are inside the palace to perform that again.”

“We shouldn’t have to,” Revas answered, getting up from the ground and motioning for Lavellan’s hunters to do the same, “Half of them are dead, and the other half are either injured or traumatized. Hopefully that will be enough.”

“Yes,” was all the aging Warlord said. He walked away to help his son, and Revas was taken aback by his concern for Aneth’ail. Threlen was a soldier, through and through, but as he knelt on the ground next to the diminished Hand, he saw a man who was a father first. 

“REVAS! THEY’RE PULLING UP THE DRAWBRIDGE!”

Twig had shouted it, pulling him out of his thoughts, and Revas yanked his head around to see the cowards trying to burrow into the palace. There was no time to lose, and he took off. 

He heard the steady thumping of footfalls running behind him, but none of them were as fast as him, and he pushed himself further to reach the bridge before it was too late. His arms pumped at his sides, his legs ached as he forced them to go as fast as possible, and his breath came heavy as he realized he might not make it. But if the bridge went up, there were no amount of flaming bottles that would get it back down again. It was now or never. 

Revas was gaining on it as it pulled up slowly, and the moat got closer and closer to him as he sprinted faster than he had his entire life. He was almost there. Almost. The marble path of Poppy Avenue gave way to the cobblestone of the bridge itself and the wooden drawn gate was halfway up in the air, leaving a great gap between him and the moat below. If he missed, he’d surely injure or even kill himself on that drop. But if he didn’t….

_“Shem’assan no!”_

The warning went unheeded and he launched himself over the gap, his arms reaching out to grab something and his legs kicking to keep momentum. His body began to drop, his weight feeling like a bag of stones, but the drawbridge was so close, he only need a few more inches…

Revas caught the brass hardware on the bridge, gripping it with the tips of his fingers and hanging on for his life, but it was enough. He got his footing on the door, and looked up to see another brass fixture. He propelled himself upwards, ever upwards until he reached the top of the bridge. When he looked up at the great stone walls however, he saw archers already aiming their bows. He did not anticipate that. 

Just as he thought his end had come, arrows flew over his head; Lavellan, standing on the cobblestone bridge below, had come through and took out his enemies before he could even try to take care of them. He yelled out a great war cry, and heard the hunters...his hunters...return it with fervor. 

The bridge drew up all the way to close, and Revas took another leap, this time onto the castle walls. It was an easy jump, and he landed solidly, his balance in tact. He looked over the ledge to see more soldiers crowding the courtyard below, heading up the ladder that led to the cranks that pulled the bridge up and down. Thinking quickly, Revas pulled out his axe and cut the rope anchoring the bridge to the cranks. First one, then the other. There was another great shout --this time from the humans below-- as the bridge tumbled forward, slamming back down into place. The hunters wasted no time in crossing over with their wooden bucklers up and their weapons drawn. The Diceni and the Thieves Guild followed closely behind, eager to get in on the action. 

Two humans had attempted to climb the ladder leading up to the ledge from where he stood, and he waited for them to get over before cutting them down swiftly with his axe. No more came after them, the mercenaries and what looked like city soldiers too distracted with the chaos below, and he took his chance to rejoin the fight.

He slid down the ladder, and embedded his hand axe into the back of a shemlen standing in his way once he got there. The shem fell to the ground with a death shudder, gurgling blood from his mouth, and Revas couldn’t help but laugh. 

Twig heard him from across the fight, and cupped his hands over his mouth, “ _Orders?_ ”

Revas yanked his axe out of the shemlen’s back and wiped it off on his bloodstained leathers before giving the command with a jovial grin.

“Storm the Palace!”


	33. Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plots are hatched in the Nacre Palace; Elain helps Sal rallies the humans to their cause.

“They made it over the bridge! They’re marching through the Courtyard now!”

A panicked guardsman had run into the Great Hall of the Nacre Palace, shouting the news of the battle at Poppy Avenue. All the nobles and advisors that had gathered fearfully, scared for their lives, began to panic as well, the voices rising over each other, filling the hall. They were the last few that had not been infected with the plague, or had no outward signs of it showing, and now that the elven warband crossed into the palace grounds, all seemed lost. 

Donovan sat on the dias steps leading up to Duke Antoine’s throne, and it’s pearl and ivory-encrusted decadence seemed a waste now that the city was all but lost. All of it was; the tall stained glass windows, darkened by the storm outside, the silver goblets, the jeweled paintings. The elves would storm this hall, and everything that was of value would be gone within a blink of an eye. 

“Your Grace. This has gone on long enough. Allow me to finish this once and for all,” the Duke’s Tevinter advisor said quietly over the chaotic response of the hall.

The Duke’s hands shook as he clutched his throne, and he reddened eyes darted quickly around the hall. 

“You already told me you’d cure my people with your special filtration system, and it only seems to have gotten worse. The dark songs refuse to leave me anymore. Night and day, they are all I hear. Why should I let you take over, Atrius?”

“Because you heard the initial reports. These elves are using a demon to do their bidding, leaving nothing but charred bodies in their wake,” the advisor replied, and Donovan listened closely, “Scoff at my homeland all you like, but we are far more well-versed in dealing with demons than any group of mercenaries.”

“Your Grace, if I could just…” Lokka tried to interrupt. Duke Antoine held his hand up in the air to stop him. 

“What do you want to do, Atrius?” the Duke asked him earnestly. Atrius adjusted his robes, and leaned in closer to him.

“I will send my colleagues to flank the enemy while your dwarf’s men meet them in pitched battle. We will deliver destruction in the back ranks, and make sure they do not raise any more demons. But in order for us to do so, you must free my colleagues from confinement.”

“They’re Tevinter,” the Duke sneered, “I trust you Atrius. You have tried to stop the bad songs and showed me the good ones again. But I don’t know them.”

“Your Grace, I would never allow them to undermine you or your position. I...we have merely tried to aid you in this difficult time. The Imperium is all too familiar with the frightful damage elves and their magic can do.”

The Duke set his hand on his chin, detailing the plain in his mind no doubt, though his flustered look only showed how difficult it was for him to think clearly now. His mind had degraded substantially since Donovan’s arrival to Wycome, and if this is what a duke went through, it did not bode well for him family. 

After mulling over his options for a moment, the Duke stood and banged his foot on the marble steps of the dias. The noise echoed in the Great Hall, quieting the bickering nobles and making them turn their gaze upwards towards them. 

“I understand your fears. But I will not let the Pearl of the Free Marches fall so easily to savages. The city’s guardsmen and my mercenaries will defend the Nacre Palace. However, I cannot let my loyal subjects be subjugated to the turmoil of a coup from these wretched elves. For those of you who wish to leave, I will allow you passage through the Catacombs under the palace that will lead you outside the city. My wife and her staff know the way, and will guide you out.”

“Antoine no!” The Duke’s wife cried from her seat with the rest of the nobles.

“Hush, love. You must leave and survive, so you may tell Starkhaven and Tantervale in the event that I do not,” he addressed her calmly. 

“You can come with us, Your Grace! There is no need to make a stand here!” another noble shouted from the crowd. He was a corpulent old man, one who had likely never held a blade in his life. Donovan picked at a loose thread on his sleeve so he wouldn’t have to look at these overfed cowards. 

“No,” the Duke said darkly, “I will not leave while I still hear the song of our city soured. As long as I remember the singing that filled my heart, I will stay.”

Cries of protest rose up in the room. _You’re not well, Your Grace! How can we convince Starkhaven without you? You’re a fool for staying!_ Simple arguments that would be disregarded from the Duke in his madness, and only spoken so they could say that they tried. None of them truly cared, or else they’d try to argue for the guardsmen defending the palace as well. 

Donovan had heard enough. He stood from the dias and left the Great Hall through a side door, the voices of the nobles still echoing behind him. Better that he prepare himself anyways. This fight was going to get very heated, very fast, and it was his job to make sure Lokka’s company was the one walking away. 

But Donovan didn’t know if he wanted to walk away anymore. He doubted his family was alive, and if they were, the same madness that reddened the Duke’s eyes and mind probably infected them as well. And it was all his fault. He could’ve walked away from Lokka’s offer those months ago. Could have said no to the gold and no to the revenge. Then, he’d be poorer in Kirkwall, but at least he’d be safe. His family would be safe. 

He didn’t know why avenging Glover drove him so hard. His father was hardly an upstanding person. He cheated on his mother far more than he ever admitted to, spent just as much gold on gambling as he did his family, and was always away more than he was home. But in the times he was home, Donovan remembered his loud laughter and his attentive love. Affection freely given, encouragement in everything he did, a wooden sword for him to follow his dreams. At the time Lokka offered, getting justice for _that_ man was the most important thing in the world. 

As he made his way down the all but abandoned hallway, his thoughts were interrupted by harsh whispers. Long shadows that were vaguely human trailed down the hallway, and he quickly darted into a small recess in the stone wall. The whispers became louder as they approached, and he held his breath to listen.

“The Duke is letting them free, but the palace may not be worth holding. We’re to proceed with our backup plan,” one cloaked figure stated.

“But what about the Inquisitor’s clan, Atrius?” a second voice spoke, and Donovan was surprised to hear that the first man was the Duke’s advisor. He must have left the Great Hall shortly after him. 

“We’ll leave token forces, but most of them are too far into the red to obey commands anymore. There is no guarantee they’ll be able to hold the palace against the elves, and we must take care of the loose ends first. There are still specimens to be collected,” Atrius answered, and Donovan pressed himself as far into the recess as he could as the two walked past him. 

“Of course, my Lord,” the second man affirmed. 

“And in the chance we must take back the palace from the knife-ears, the rest of the Marcher cities will celebrate us as liberators. The Inquisitor’s clan will be destroyed, along with the vermin elves in the alienage, and her people’s reputation tarnished along with it. She’ll lose the support of nobles and elves alike, as well as her family. And then the Elder One…”

The conversation drifted off, the whispers nothing more than soft murmurs lost in the stone walls. Donovan waited a few moments before exiting his recess, brushed his clothes off, and made his way down to the armory. 

He could tell the Duke of his advisor’s duplicity, but had no proof to give him. It would be his word against a trusted equal. He could warn Lokka, but part of him hoped Lokka would die here too. The nobles of Wycome wouldn’t hear either, not from a washed up guardsman from Kirkwall like him. He was nothing but a hired sword, and was treated as such. 

Donovan crossed the length of the castle to descend down the steps into the musty, damp armory. His sword and armor was on a mannequin, waiting for him to pick them up, and he did so reverently. The sword was sharp and gleaming, a well taken care of reward he received when he became a full guard in Kirkwall. The armor was damaged but usable, a less happy reminder of his discharge and his desperate search for work under that damned dwarf. 

It occurred to him it would be the last time he used both. He had no illusions about this. There were still a lot of forces left, but the guardsmen who lived in the city were all plague-ridden and mad, and even some of his group had started to show signs. Getting them to follow orders, and Maker held him, keep in formation, would be a challenge he wasn’t sure he could overcome.

The thought of dying didn’t trouble him. He slipped on his cuirass, tightening the buckles, pondering how it would happen. Quick or slow? Will he see it coming or not? Would it hurt? The pain didn’t matter as much, but suffering for too long wasn’t what he wanted either. A simple soldier’s death would suit him fine.

So long as he got to face the Maiden’s second in command. He hadn’t forgotten the information Lokka gave him; about the leader of this clan’s hunters sending her underling out to fetch some poor sod’s head. Glover’s head. And he had no doubt she’d send him again to clean up here in Wycome. So somewhere out there was the man who killed his father. The face he wanted to see bloodied, the eyes he wanted to see blank, the guts he wanted to see spilled on the floor. 

He’d happily join Glover in death if he got to take the son of a bitch who ruined his life with him. 

\---

“Maker save us,” Rhian, the human trader said under his breath before turning to Sal as he leaned against the Vhenadahl, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did it come from?”

Elain sat at the base of the Vhenadahl, pains in her legs and abdomen stopping her from standing for too long, and Deshanna rubbed them gently to get her blood flowing again. This was turning into almost too much for her to handle and regret was welling up in her chest. Finding and killing Donovan had seemed like a surefire way to turn the tides in her favor, but the cost was turning out to be quite high. She hoped it would not cost her everything.

“From the Duke, according to Rin,” Sal responded as he chewed on his lip, “Though who knows how long it’s been down there. What matters is that we _knife-ears_ weren’t the cause of this.”

“Sal, you know I would’ve never thought…” Rhian started but Sal just turned his head. 

The humans had opened their gate leading to Tulip Way once they were sure they were safe, and were gathering in the courtyard with the Vhenadahl, talking quietly to one another about the things they had seen and that Rin confirmed. There was no doubt that the plague in Wycome was red lyrium infecting whatever poor souls drank the water from the reservoir under Poppy Avenue. 

But it was nothing compared to what happened to the elves living here. Scraps and bits of their remains were scattered around, they had found, along with more bones embedded with the lyrium. The rich humans may have been slowly gone made from using the water, but it was a far better fate than what happened to the people in the alienage. 

As more and more was uncovered about the fate of the elves who didn’t get slaughtered in the Catacombs, Sal grew more and more reserved. He had taken the burden of the atrocities here on his own shoulders, and the anger of inaction and the guilt of not coming in time was written all over his face. 

As the human merchants continued their pleas of innocence and started making calls for action, Sal finally pushed off his perch on the great tree, and walked down a nearby alley, away from the courtyard. He had gone to brood alone, lost in his own thoughts. 

She wasn’t quite sure what compelled her, but Elain shooed Deshanna off her, and left her seat to follow him. There was something about letting him work this out by himself that didn’t sit well with her. He hadn’t gone far down the alleyway, and she was thankful. Chasing after him would leave her exhausted. 

He was leaning against a wall, the rain from earlier still drizzling down the rotted wood, but he merely set his head against it and closed his eyes, unconcerned with the water. She approached him quietly, but he still heard her. 

“Can’t I just be alone for one Maker damned minute?” he asked in exasperation. He brought his hand over his eyes and clamped it there tightly.

“I’m sorry,” she said but did not stop her approach, “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Be a lot better if I didn’t have busy bodies stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong.”

Elain leaned against the wall next to him and sighed. He was right. Any other time, it would be none of her business, but the circumstances now were unique. She needed him clear-minded and focused if they were going to get the human merchants and laborers on their side.

“About five years ago, I lost an entire unit of hunters while I was aiding another clan. They weren’t from Lavellan, but they were still my people.”

He brought his hand down and turned his head towards her, “Really? You think a story is going to make me feel better?”

She ignored him and continued, “There had been slavers entrenched in a nearby valley to the clan. They petitioned the Maiden to help them get rid of the filth that was haunting them. It should’ve been a clean, simple mission. I was merely there to direct them, as I had dealt with these slavers before. When I got there, I walked in as if the mission was already finished. I gave simple directives, led an ambush myself, and expected many gifts and accolades for my work.”

“But that didn’t happen,” Sal guessed. She nodded her head.

“I had not expected the slavers to set an ambush of their own. They had deduced where we were planning our attack, and flanked us. Several good hunters were snatched, and others suffocated to death as they burned us out of the valley. When we finally returned to the clan’s camp, over twenty hunters were either dead or as good as dead. A small amount for someone living in a city, but to a clan, it was a great loss.”

“I can imagine,” he turned his head again and looked towards the strip of sky that could be seen between the buildings. 

“I had come to help, but only made matters worse. Watching my own plans backfire in my face was terrifying in the moment, but humbling as time passed. I’m not infallible. I’m not without flaws. I work in service to the gods and still feel hubris. And that hubris made me ignore the warnings from my Shadow and the Warlord of the clan. The gods allowed my Shadow to walk away, scarred but alive. They did not allow the same for the Warlord.”

“Yeah, alright, you messed up,” he complained, “Does this have a point, or are you going to keep jabbering at me all night?”

“The point is we cannot foresee everything, and that we only learn once time has passed. You blame yourself for this all now, but in a few years, you’ll have perspective, and know what needs to change so as not to let this happen again. Do not mourn the moment. Instead, try to turn it in your favor.”

“And what did you change, Maiden? You still came waltzing in this place like you had the solution to all our problems,” he questioned her bluntly. She tucked the hair that had fallen on her face behind her ear, and took a deep breath. 

“I didn’t,” she answered him honestly, “We call my Shadow ‘ _Shem’assan_ \--Quick Arrow--’ because he always charges into situations before thinking. But I’m no better. I make my decisions without listening to anyone else, believing I know the best for everyone. And now I’m here, in this strange city, my child ready to enter this world any day and its father fighting a battle that I forced him into for my own glory. There were a thousand other solutions that would’ve been better, but I refused to see them.”

“So why are you tellin’ me this? Want someone to get rid of your guilt?” he pressed her, “‘Cause from where I’m standin’, looks like you’re getting what you deserved.”

“I am certain I am,” she said softly, surprised at how readily she admitted this to a man who was barely more than a stranger to her, “But you didn’t deserve this, Sal. Your people didn’t deserve this. You did what you could. And I know you won’t stop until you see this through. You’re already a better person than I could’ve hoped to have been.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t know me,” he said bitterly, then banged his foot into the wall abruptly, “Those shems watched it happen.”

“I know.”

“Heard them screaming, heard them being slaughtered, saw them getting taken in the night...and they just holed up in their safe little district,” he went on. 

“I know that as well.”

“All I want to do is strangle every last one of them with my bare hands and…” he stopped, suddenly choked up, the rain unable to disguise the tears welling up in his eyes.

“And?” she asked him gently. He wiped his eyes aggressively, his teeth bared and his ears flat against his head. 

“I just..just want them to hurt, you know? Hurt like I’m hurtin’,” he confided in her, “Or maybe even worse. Maybe just let them rot here, let them watch their kids get poisoned from this fucking rock and let them beat their chests and rip their hair when they lose them.”

Elain said nothing, waiting for him to get what he needed off his chest.

“I’ve been a shithead of a father, but I never wanted this for them,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, “They deserved better. All of them.”

“You had family here?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “My own two, and then every kid who ever crossed my doorstep lookin’ for help. I wasn’t there for the girls as much as I should’ve been, so I tried to make it up by makin’ sure no one was turned away. Most of the time it was a meal and a few coppers to get them a pair of shoes. I wanted to give more, but things don’t always go the way we want, yeah? I tried. Maker I tried.”

He closed his eyes again, very slowly.

“But wouldn’t ya fuckin’ guess it...I failed. Again,” he finished.

The alleyway was quiet now, except for the scattered rain. It dripped, dripped, dripped, filling the silence, making it louder than it really was. There was a profound heaviness that hung over them both; the guilt of never learning her lesson for Elain, and the disappointment of all his efforts turning to failure for Sal. They were two entirely different people, from two entirely different worlds, come together for a moment to let out what was weighing down on them. 

Elain felt they both needed it if they were to prevail. Needed to push through it and make it work _for_ them, not against them. This was not over yet, and though Sal only saw failure, she knew there was much more to be won if only they pushed.

“We _should_ make them hurt,” she finally spoke up, “If we win, we’ll be the ones left standing once the dust clears. The things we could do…”

“Hah,” he chuckled, though it was more sad than mirthful, “They’d raise the Free Army ‘fore they’d let us have our say. Best to save what we can and hope we don’t strung up for it.”

“And isn’t that attitude why you’re in this predicament? Hope for the best, that the plague would be contained, that the humans wouldn’t turn their sights on the elves for blame? Then scuttling like roaches when the humans turned their light on them, finding the darkest hole to hide in.”

“That ain’t what happened,” he pushed off the wall and faced her down, “And I don’t appreciate you makin’ insinuations like that.”

She stepped away from the wall as well, refusing to allow him to intimidate her, “And why not? You’ve already resigned yourself to defeat. Once the smoke clears and you and your kin return to your way of life, it will not be long before the cycle begins anew, and more of your ‘ _kids_ ’ are cut down simply because they can be. How many of these failures will you endure before your back finally breaks?”

“You’re crossing a line you don’t know nothin’ about,” he warned her as he pressed a finger into her chest. Elain would not be cowed. 

“The humans out there heard --and watched-- your kin get slaughtered. Taken away in the night. They did _nothing_. And you would let them just pick up where they left off after _we_ are the ones that save them? You’re more like me than you want to see, Sal. You haven’t learned your lessons from the same failures,” her voice started to rise, the anger and indignation at what happened here filling her heart, “Don’t let these cowards hide under the safety of your Vhenadahl while the Thieves Guild and my hunters risk their lives to save this city.”

“And what do you want me to do?!” he all but yelled at her now, “This is how it’s always been! How it will probably always be!”

“Only if you allow it,” she stated, “What happened here is unforgivable. We both know that.”

Elain pointed out towards the Vhenadahl, where the humans and her forces gathered.

“Let them know that too.”

He stared at her angrily, as if he could quiet the doubts she had stirred in him. But there was no quieting them once they were brought to light. Elain had no question of their existence. They were written on his tear-stained face, his down turned mouth, his shaking hands. Her arrow had hit it’s mark. 

Rather than say anything else, Sal pushed past her and made his way back into the courtyard with the Vhenadahl. He strode there with purpose, and anger, and drive. It was heartening to see after watching him wilt since they had arrived in Wycome. 

“Rhian!” he yelled over the chatting group, then moved his way to where the human merchant stood. Elain followed him slowly, eager to witness what he could accomplish when driven.

Rhian looked up from a conversation with a group of humans --laborers, by the looks of their clothes and calloused hands-- and turned his head towards the bartender.

“Do you have any weapons?” he asked the merchant. Rhian shook his head vigorously.

“You know we can arm elves, Sal! It’s against policy,” he said to him, “Besides, none of these people know how to fight. Just a bunch of families.”

Sal marched to the human free loaders and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were covered in scars and old tattoos; types sea traders had, faded to a light blue with age. Rhian blanched at the sight.

“Policy can bite my ass, Rhian. There ain’t no one here to enforce it! This city has gone to shit, and if these Dalish and the Guild don’t pull it out, we may as well dig our graves,” he argued loudly, making the other humans quiet their petty talk and turn their attention towards him, “Things have gotta change around here. We lost too many folks for this to keep happening. How many of the dockworkers didn’t show up for work to unload your shipments, Petra?”

“Too many,” a woman replied solemnly. 

“And what about you, Norman? Where were your pitchers? Your strikers? Your couriers?”

Another man shuffled his feet and looked at the ground, “Maker has them now, I suppose.”

Sal spat on the ground in disgust, “You _suppose_. You damn well know they ain’t around because you hid your head in the dirt. Too scared to tackle the problems here alone, but too greedy to up and leave somewhere else. Instead, you just watch as the people that make your shit move are murdered in the streets. You close your eyes and hope that when you open them, it’ll be all over and another elf can take their place.”

“Sal, that’s not…” Rhian started.

“Don’t interrupt me!” Sal shouted, “I’ve been quiet too long, and I’m tired of hearing you all talk without havin’ nothing to say. So now I get my turn!”

The humans remained quiet, waiting for him to speak. The corners of Elain’s mouth turned up slightly at the display.

“You’re going to get every weapon you got and pull it out here. Trust me when I say they won’t be happy when the Nacre Palace gets overrun. And if it doesn’t...well sir, you can bet no words in the world are gonna stop them from thinkin’ you were a part of this,” he spoke so that everyone in the courtyard could hear, “After all, no elf could come up with this themselves, right? We’re nothin’ but animals.”

“So you better be ready to fight for your city, because me and mine are tired of bein’ the only ones doin’ it. If you wanna leave,” he pointed to the east, “Poppy Avenue is that way. Don’t think you’re gonna bundle yourselves back up in Tulip Way, because you only got so much water and I’ll be damned if I let you use ours.”

“Sal..” Rhian continued to try to reason with him, but Sal had none of it.

“No matter what, things are gonna change in Wycome, you better believe that. We’re not going to make this city run anymore if this is how we’re repaid; with our families and kids screamin’ and you turnin’ your heads,” he regained his composure, calming his voice, reining his speech in, “So go get what weapons you can. The Maiden here will have her forces takin’ these doors down so you can’t lock yourselves in anymore while you do. Then, we’re goin’ stand together, like we should’ve from the start. Understood?”

There were no arguments, no dissenting voices. Only haunted faces and defeated eyes. They knew they had done wrong, and Sal had made sure to rub their noses in it. 

“Yeah Sal,” Rhian spoke for all of them, “We’re with you.”

They dispersed to grab whatever weapons they could and Elain signaled for some of her hunters to break the hinges on the wooden gates that separated the alienage from Tulip Way. Deshanna came up next to her as she oversaw the work.

“I see you spoke with our cousin,” she said quietly.

“Yes.” The hinges on the door were easily demolished with the force of weapons made by her father that the hunters carried.

“This is the beginning of a big change to the city,” Deshanna whispered as she linked her arm into Elain’s.

“It is,” she replied, her face beaming as Sal delegated tasks off to humans and elves alike. She was proud of him. 

\---

The hours passed and the humans and elves waited impatiently for any news from the warband heading up Poppy Avenue. They had heard clashes and thunder and cries from far away, but dared not send scouts to assess the situation. Some hunters sat on the rotted wooden walls into the alienage, hoping the height would allow them to see what was going on. Some reported flashes of light, but little else. 

Elain was discussing with Sal and Deshanna how to defend the alienage if the hunters did fall back, and counted up the weapons and abilities the merchants and laborers had. Merchants were fairly useless in a fight, but laborers had enough physical prowess that they may be able to defend themselves. Most of the fighting would still fall on the hunters and guild members that had been left behind, but more sword hands were always welcome. 

Just as they were considering starting shift for some sleep, there was a loud knocking against the gates into the alienage. They were further east than where the mish mash of elves and humans had settled themselves in, but it was loud enough to echo down the narrow streets clearly. 

One knock, and then another. And another. Each getting progressively louder and more aggressive. 

“What’s that?” Deshanna asked, standing from her seat on the roots of the Vhenadahl.

Another knock, but this one shook the entire eastern wall, knocking several hunters down. They got up quickly, fine from the drop, but pulled their bows out. 

“Get into formation!” Elain ordered her forces as she pulled out her own bow. This was not the warband falling back.

The human and elven forces scrambled to get in their positions; archers on the roofs of buildings, the few shield bearers in the front ranks, and the guild members who stayed behind darting down the back alleys for some recon. She’d know soon enough what they were facing. 

“What is it, Maiden?” Sal asked from behind her. 

A flare flew up into the air suddenly, lighting up the twilight sky, then falling back down with an alarming speed. It was no ordinary fire, she could already see, as it plummeted back to earth. Her fears were confirmed as it exploded on impact.

The explosion shook the alienage; the ground itself seemed to tremble and the cries the forces let out where full of terror. Elain snapped her fingers to get the attention of Rin nearby, and Rin slinked over slowly. 

“I have a mission for you,” she said to the smuggler as she raised her bow and steadied herself.

“Yeah?” 

“You’re to go into the city proper and find Lavellan’s hunters. When you do, talk to my Banal’ras. Ask him to send additional forces so we can flank whatever enemy is trying to get in here,” she gave her the orders as she narrowed her eyes when the smell of burning sulphur invaded her nose.

“Uh, you do realize it’s dangerous out there, right?” Rin asked her.

“It’s going to be even more dangerous here in a moment. Unless you’d like to stay and fight…”

Rin lifted her hands in the air in protest, “Eh, I’ll pass. So tell your Banana Ross to send more guys to help you out here? Got it.”

Elain lifted her chin and pointed it towards Tulip Way, “Good. Now get going. Our lives may be at stake.”

She didn’t watch the smuggler leave, instead opting to brush her fingers over the arrows in her quiver at her waist. Enough to defend herself and whoever else she needed for a short time, but she had no idea what kind of forces they were up against. As the loud knocks continued, now punctuated with the creaking of iron hinges breaking off wood, she knew they would know soon enough. 

“They’re using magic,” Deshanna said fearfully, “Powerful magic. That flare was not done naturally.”

“I know.”

“Will Revas and Threlen send reinforcements in time?” she questioned her, her voice losing its gentle lull and replaced by a rising panic. Elain could not answer her. She tightened her hand around the grip of her bow as another flare flew up into the sky, this one nearly right above their heads. 

Only the gods had the answers they sought, but she doubted They would rush to aid the Maiden now. 


	34. Entrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een and her entourage arrive at the Winter Palace, and are immediately greeted by the Grand Duke; Revas and the warband also find themselves in a palace.

It had been months of posturing, moving pieces, building reputation. Weeks of lessons, internal planning, and outward practice. And days upon days of fitting and refitting uniforms, war room briefings, sleepless nights...all the work, all the plotting, now coming to fruition.

So it surprised Sar’een that she felt so empty when the Inquisition marched up to the Winter Palace’s gates.

There was no sense of nervousness or dread; not even a smidge of anxious energy. She just felt cold. As cold as the massive wrought iron gates they passed through, as cold as the marble under her feet as she dismounted her steed, as cold as the spring night air that brought the fragrance of blooming flowers and the scattered laughter of The Game in the sprawling courtyard to the palace. 

“Are you ready for this, darling?” Vivienne asked her discreetly as her entourage strolled into the courtyard with a full military procession; a show of power and intimidation, per Vivienne’s advice and Josephine’s approval. The procession halted and stood in formation as she, Solas, and the Court Enchanter made their way inside, another show. Every movement had to be a show in the Game.

“I hope so,” she answered her truthfully as she looked at the beautiful trellises full of ivy and little white flowers when they passed under them, “Otherwise it was all for nothing and Corypheus wins.”

“I doubt it is that simple,” Solas chimed in their conversation, “If that were the case, he would not have been waiting for this peace conference to make a move.”

“He’s made several moves already, but our Inquisitor has also dealt him some very decisive blows,” Vivienne declared, “This false god’s desperation is beginning to show.”

“Indeed,” he assented, but then leaned in towards her ear.

“Have you prepared weapons in case of trouble?” He asked her quietly. She nodded.

“Leliana’s agents are stationed around the perimeter as a decoy. One of Sera’s Jenny contacts is placing the weapons for us.”

“Excellent work,” he complimented her, “Though I hope they will not be needed.”

“So do I,” she said absently as they marched through the gardens of the courtyard. Several nobles stopped their conversations at her approach and stared at her as if she was some delicious fruit, ripe for the eating. Others spoke a little louder, sipped their wine more pointedly, and turned their heads away as she passed rather purposefully. She sighed deeply at the snub.

Sar’een had her work cut out for her.

“My Lady Inquisitor!”

A masked man stood at the top of the stairs leading to the palace, wearing the Masque du Chalons, but dressed in the formal wear of a chevalier. His accent was lilting, but his voice robust, a man used to barking commands and seeing them obeyed without question. She knew who this man was, and knew exactly why he was trying to get her attention before she had even made her entrance in the palace. Her first test was coming far sooner than she expected, but there was no use in avoiding the inevitable. 

“Grand Duke Gaspard, I presume,” she climbed up the stairs, her daunting entourage in tow, and she held her hand out for him to take. He took it immediately, and graciously brought her knuckles to his lips, where he placed a kiss of familiarity, as the Game would dictate.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, my Lady,” Gaspard said with the grace a long time Player, “And it is always a joy to see you Madame de Fer.”

“Oh Grand Duke, the pleasure is all ours, of course,” Vivienne responded brightly, her innate charm shining through, despite this man being a threat to her position at Court, “We did not expect such an impromptu meeting.”

The Duke bowed his head slightly, an acknowledgment of a small play, or respect for Vivienne’s rather forthright insinuation, “My apologies, but I wanted to meet the Inquisitor personally before her debut in the Winter Palace’s Court. And to discuss matters of great importance.”

“It would be my honor to speak with you, Grand Duke,” Sar’een curtsied, though swiftly and without show; a sign of her interest but not of her trust. The rules were easy enough to follow, so long as the player could observe them in action.

“The honor is mine, I assure you,” Gaspard replied politely, but his eyes --barely visible from behind his mask for any human observer-- darted to and fro between her companions. He was attempting to size them up; to get a read on her through them, “Forgive my bluntness, my Lady, but I would prefer if we could have our discussion...in private.”

Solas rocked on his heel, Vivenne shifted nearly imperceptibly, and the Duke did not wait for a response before he began to walk to an isolated alcove in the courtyard gardens. It wasn’t a question, but a demand, and Sar’een knew that denying him would be a misstep. Men like him were not used to being denied, and their entitled pride would not allow them to let the affront go. She had seen it many times outside of the Orlesian Court, and her cool detachment began to lift when she realized how similar this Grand Game was to the ones played in the Council back home. 

Sar’een walked to the alcove behind the Duke, signaling for her friends to go into the palace without her. Their hovering would do her no good, and she needed every advantage she could take.

“I apologize for the need for solitude, Inquisitor, but there are ears everywhere in the palace,” Gaspard addressed her once he was sure they were alone. She was certain he didn’t realize the insinuation.

“Ears larger than a human’s, I suppose,” she retorted, “Perhaps ears in the employ of a certain ambassador.”

Gaspard straightened his shoulders, “I am under no illusion that the elves here are working with Ambassador Briala. You should also know that I detest the dependence on the elves for servants, precisely for this reason. The conditions in which they live make for poor loyalty.”

“Have you tried to change those conditions, Grand Duke?” she asked him earnestly. His posture was larger and more menacing than hers, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. Not anymore. She had work tonight, and it was just as important as anything the players here were trying to accomplish. 

“The alienage in Verchiel is one of the cleanest, safest neighborhoods in all of Orlais, my Lady,” he didn’t skip a beat with his answer, “And unlike Celene, I have never felt the need to purge an entire district to maintain my image. Though I bear no love for Ambassador Briala and her methods, I do respect her, and have been a greater ally to your people than Celene could ever hope to be.”

It was a lie. A very pretty lie, but a lie none the less. Verchiel’s alienage was ‘reduced’ not a decade ago when a chevalier was murdered after a retaliation for an attack on a young elven tavern servant. The streets were clean because the Grand Duke had scrubbed the spilled blood away. He was no better than the Empress.

“I suppose I will have to see that for myself,” she answered him, “Is that what you are proposing?”

Gaspard gave a quiet chuckle, “You’re quite observant, my Lady Inquisitor. There had been rumors of your perception, but it’s a relief to see it in person,” he straightened himself again, this time setting his hands behind his back.

“I detest the Game. It’s a silly nuisance that gets in the way of the actual ruling of Orlais, but there is no choice but to play, is there? And so I do,” he explained, “But if we could bypass that altogether and work towards a common goal, it would make the night run much smoother for us both. And for Orlais.”

“And how do we bypass that?” she pressed him, her eyes never leaving his, though he tried so hard to hide them behind the mask as he breathed lies into the air.

“By being upfront in our intentions, of course,” he said plainly, “I have no desire to continue this needless war, and yet, I cannot stand idly by while Celene lets the empire burn and Corypheus use us to further his own schemes. The Inquisition needs the ruler of Orlais to be proactive, aggressive, and a stalwart ally. Celene is none of those things.”

“But you are?” 

“That is for you to judge, Inquisitor. I wouldn’t dream of putting the idea in your head,” he smiled at her from under that mask, but she kept her face straight as stone. Despite his claims otherwise, Gaspard was no stranger to this Game and knew how to play quite well, if Vivienne was to be trusted on these matters, “But my actions do speak quite loudly, don’t you think? A lifetime of service to the empire, a record for defending from the front ranks. While Celene throws lip service and ‘cultural enrichment’ as the most important way to make our empire strong again, Corypheus has dipped his rancid claws in the Emprise Du Lion, the Western Approach, and even the Dales. You yourself saw his influence in the Emerald Graves, did you not?”

A clumsy reference to the Freemen of the Dales and her people’s former homeland; bold, considering his war with the Empress created the cradle in which these deserters were bred. 

“There were red templars there, yes,” she affirmed coolly, “But the Inquisition took care of the problems in the Dales, and in Emprise and in the Western Approach. What good is an army and its commander if I’ve already won the war?”

She met his boldness with an equally bold statement. Something she hoped a a seasoned chevalier would respect. Her hope might have been misplaced however, as Gaspard’s demeanor shifted considerably. His stance stiffened, he held his shoulders straighter, and rose his chin high. Now, he looked down on her in every respect.

“I apologize, Inquisitor Lavellan, I was not aware you had already defeated this vile god pretender that continues to terrorize all of Southern Thedas,” he said tersely, “Or are you perhaps confusing a battle won with a war being finished? They are very different things.”

“Perhaps I am,” she said lightly, determined not to let the Grand Duke’s attempt at patronizing shake her, “But you’ll have to excuse my lack of knowledge on warfare. We Dalish never get the chance to engage it in fairly.”

“Ah,” he breathed out, though his posture did not change, “Forgive me. I often forget that Dalish elves live much different lives than those in human cities. A fault of mine that I associate all elves with the ones I interact with regularly.”

Another attempt to attach himself to elves in order to get in her good graces. He was persistent, but the time was floating away, and Sar’een knew she needed to get inside the palace.

“Of course,” she said, shifting in place in order to show him her restlessness. It was time to move things along, “You can make it up to me by telling me what it is you want exactly, since we both know this is a proposal.”

He laughed sharply, "That we do, my Lady. I will be upfront then, since I made a show of trying to convince you of that anyways."

Gaspard stepped closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers, both of them facing the grand sight of the Winter Palace, "You and I both know that Celene is not fit for this throne. She has thrown away valuable troops and resources trying to fight to save her dwindling influence. While she throws parties and approaches everything diplomatically, Corypheus has ravaged our country. I say, ' _no more_ '. Orlais needs a person of action on the throne, and there is no one better qualified than I. While Celene would fumble to pull the nobility back together to fight a war against this pretender god, I would already have soldiers breaking his ranks, undoing his plots, and shining light into every hole the roach has tried to crawl into."

"You want me to support your claim to the throne," she deduced easily, "But what makes you think your countrymen would listen to what I say?"

"We're a devout people, Inquisitor. There is a Chantry on nearly every corner, and we are suffocating without a Divine to guide us. In this darkness, when the Maker seems lost, many Orlesians have turned to you and the Inquisition as arbitrators of His Will. You hold far more sway over the faithful than you give yourself credit for."

"Interesting, seeing as the Chantry has fought me at every turn, it seems," she pointed out to him. Though more and more alliances had been made and influence had been spread, Sar'een still doubted the people of Orlais would look to a Dalish elf for their spiritual guidance.

"Some parts, yes. But from my understanding, many grand clerics and influential mothers have thrown their support behind you. The Chantry may be stubborn, but they cannot argue with the results you've gotten," he explained to her, "And neither can I. If you were to throw your lot in with me, then I would unite the divided empire and bring the naysayers to heel."

Music started to play inside the palace, filling the air with the sophisticated songs of Orlesian composers, the understated notes of the string instruments carrying on the light spring breeze. The time for talk was nearing an end, and she would need to make her entrance soon.

"What makes you think Celene could not do the same?" Sar'een asked him shrewdly. She was loathe to support a man that used the empress' supposed relationship with an elf as fire against her. 

"It's clear she has not done it so far," he stated calmly, "She has had months to support your organization and the work you've done, and yet here she is, holed up in her palace, doing renovations and holding galas for the nobility who have supported my efforts, trying to sway them. Celene cannot think beyond the Game. A trait we do not share."

Sar'een nodded at his assessment, then began to move away from him slowly. In this situation, a non-answer would be her best weapon.

"Understood," she said to him over her shoulder, "I will think on this...proposal."

"My Lady," he affirmed her answer, but did not follow her. She thanked the gods for that. Gaspard was a chevalier, but she felt there was something predatory in his requests as well. He may have thought it was because he was best suited to rule an empire, yet Sar'een knew there was a ruthless ambition hiding under his proclaimed selfless concern for Orlais.

Sar'een made her way up the staircase leading into the Winter Palace and passed through the threshold under the immense doors. The hallway inside was similar to the design in Vivienne's estate, though on a much grander scale. Marble floors and statuary, and then cobalt blue hangings covered the walls, interspersed with portraits of the royalty that had walked these halls in years passed. Golden statues and accents of a lion were everywhere, glittering and dazzling, and the ceilings seemed to reach up and up forever, touching the very top of the sky. 

It was luxurious and decadent in a way Sar'een had never seen, and she caught herself staring at the surroundings in awe. This spectacle was built on the bones of her people's homeland, and she found it hard to imagine that the Dalish of old could ever have accomplished the feats of art and architecture she saw before her. The ruins on the Exalted Plains and Emerald Graves had been striking, but the Winter Palace was a diamond among the pieces of crushed coal that was the Dales.

"There you are darling," Vivienne exclaimed, breaking Sar'een out of her trance as she hooked her arm into hers, "What did our dear Grand Duke have to say? No doubt a grasp for the throne."

She grinned at her friend, "Of course! A proposal of support for him, all while trying to tell me in a roundabout way he'd be better for the elves of Orlais."

Vivienne scoffed, "Oh Gaspard. He has never been decent at conversing with anyone but soldiers. And that sounds exactly like a speech he would give to them in order to build morale. The poor dear."

"He did bring up that the Empress has been sitting on her hands while the Inquisition does all the work in Orlais," she said, "I don't think I can argue that."

"She has been rather...slow at response," Vivienne admitted, "But Gaspard has been no better."

"True," Sar'een agreed, "Where are Solas and Sera?"

"Solas is sampling every drink and piece of food that passes under his nose, while Sera is actually being useful," she answered, "Speaking with servants and creating distractions as Cullen moves soldiers inside the palace. Everything is nearly in place. Now it will be up to you to uncover the plots at work here. Are you ready?"

Sar'een looked at the door leading to the ballroom on the other side of the vestibule. Already a roomful of nobles had gathered, waiting for the Empress to greet them. She would have to join them soon and face the woman who ordered the wholesale slaughter of the alienage in Halamshiral. It wasn't something she was looking forward to.

She shook the feeling of dread off of her, knowing this is what had to be done in order to weaken Corypheus even more, and reached into her uniform jacket to take out her mask. She pulled the pigeon head over her own, disappearing into its garish feathers and beady eyes, and felt empowered by it. As long as she played this Game on her terms, she could face anything. Vivienne sighed dejectedly next to her.

"I'm as ready as I will ever be."

\---

"KEEP PUSHING!" 

Revas nearly had to scream it over the loud grunts and yells of the hunters attempting to use their combined strength to break the doors at the entrance of the Nacre Palace off its hinges. The cedar wood cracked and splintered at each heave, but it was taking forever for it to go down.

The remaining guardsmen and mercenaries that they hadn't cut down in the courtyard beyond the drawbridge had retreated inside the palace itself, probably hoping to hold it against the clan forces. The entrance wasn't as well fortified as the bridge however, and it was just a matter of time before they could break it. 

"You sure you don't want me to send some of my runners through a window?" Yemet asked him at his side, a crossbow loaded in his hands and a smile that hadn't left his face since they breached the old stone walls, "They could probably open the door from the inside."

"No," Revas shook his head, "We don't know how many forces are in there, or where they're at. There's no point on getting anyone killed just so this happens faster."

"Pretty ripe coming from the guy who jumped halfway over the moat to grab the drawbridge that was closing," Yemet teased him. Revas just shrugged.

"Yeah, and if I wouldn't have made it, it would've been no one's fault but my own. I don't want dead runners on my conscious."

"Alright, whatever you say. Just thought I'd save us some time," he relented, then attempted to change the subject, "So about that mage of yours..."

"What about him?" Revas was annoyed with the city elf's pestering while he was trying to concentrate on the doors coming down.

"What do you mean ' _what about him_ '? I never saw any magic like that in my life," Yemet said ominously, "Not once. Only thing close was one time a templar friend of mine told me a story about an abomination."

"What's an abomination?" he asked him. 

"You know...a mage that makes a deal with a demon and takes over his body. Kind of like what happened to that Hand guy."

"Look, I know shit about magic. If you want to know about him, you have to ask him," Revas snapped at him.

Yemet looked behind them, across the drawbridge, back to the marble-paved battlefield on Poppy Avenue where Aneth'ail still sat on the ground, surrounded by the bodies of the mercenaries and guardsmen, as well as the lyrium sick humans they had encountered. His magic had killed them all indiscriminately, and drained him of everything, both physically and mentally. Threlen gave the order to move on without him while he recovered, and Revas did his best to hide his relief at that.

"You know...if I have to talk to him to see what happened, I'd be better off just looking the other way, to be honest," Yemet remarked as he stared at the figure of the Hand in the distance, "Weird that none of you halla shit eaters even seem phased by it. That was quite a show."

"Not all of us like it," he confessed, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe he didn't want to seem like he condoned what the Hand did, "It was useful and pulled our asses out of the fire back there, but I'd rather trust my bow than some magic."

Yemet patted the grip on his crossbow gently, "On that we can agree."

They were interrupted by the sound of a loud, whining crack. The wood of the grand doors were splintering, cracking straight up the middle, and the hunters from the back ranks catching their breath ran to push their weight against it again. Revas did the same, moving his way through the mass of bodies to reach the front, attempting not to get crushed along the way.

"Make way for the Banal'ras!" Warlord Threlen called from the front ranks, right next to the doors, and slowly the bodies began to thin and move to the side so he could get through. 

He reached the front, panting from all the maneuvering he had to do to get there, and the cracks up the grain of the wooden doors grew larger and larger with each concentrated push.

"We can't let them rush through once the doors break," Revas yelled over the melee to the Warlord.

"Agreed, though in these tight quarters, we may have no choice," Threlen replied, and drew his sword and shield, "Be ready for anything!"

A loud reverberation of the door splitting in half gave them a moment of pause, but the swell of hunters rushed again, breaking it down the rest of the way. The right door was nothing but splinters now, and the warband spilled into the Nacre Palace in a rush, eager to get to fighting. 

Revas rushed inside at the front along with them, hoping to get some semblance of order back once they were inside, but things never go like he wanted them to. He and Threlen should’ve held them back, and instead, he saw the glowing red eyes of a room full of guardsmen and mercenaries waiting for them to break through.

The front ranks were fell upon immediately, ambushed again by deranged mercenaries and guardsman hacking away with their weapons. They swung wildly, paying no mind to rank or order, and it took all but a moment for the scene to turn to chaos.

"SHIELDS UP!" he bellowed over the bedlam, and saw as Lavellan attempted to follow orders and gain some organization. The ones in the front ranks with bucklers held them up, and the ones without fell back. But he needed them to push forward so the Diceni shock troops at the back ranks could move inside. 

A human swung at him out of the corner of his eye, and though he tried to pull his axe out of his belt and deflect it, there would be no time. He raised his arm, hoping that he'd get injured instead of killed, but was surprised when the sword fell from the human's hand, and the human fell immediately after. 

"You're welcome, shit eater!"

Yemet yelled from somewhere in the back ranks, and a bolt from a crossbow stuck out of the human's neck, but Revas had no time to reflect. He unholstered his axe and moved behind the shield-bearers desperately trying to hold some kind of formation against the humans pressing back against them. 

“We need to push forward!” he shouted over their heads, “Someone pass me a shield!”

“Here,” it was Threlen who handed it off from behind him, then moved to the very front with him, his own shield poised and ready for a heavy fight, “On three.”

Revas nodded, and strapped the buckler to his forearm, holding his up to his chest. His axe dangled in his right hand, and he repeated the order to Lavellan’s hunters, “ _On three!_ ”

_“One!”_

The shield bearers seemed to coil up slightly, pulling their bucklers closer to their chests, lowering their heads.

_“Two!”_

The spring was wound tightly, and they were ready.

_“THREE!”_

The front ranks surged forward in a burst, pushing with all their might. Revas and Threlen’s combined force knocked back several humans, breaking their chaotic mass. It was an opening, but it wouldn’t be smart to take it. Let the back ranks fall in so they could overwhelm these mad mercenaries, rather than just try to be a hero. But these humans were making it hard.

More hunters moved in over the broken entrance door as the shield wall pushed the humans back, but it wasn’t enough. More and more shemlen filled the entrance hall, and it was too crowded for Revas to pinpoint where they were coming from. For every foot they gained, two humans came in place of it. He and Threlen continued to surge with the shield wall, but it was netting them less and less ground.

“We need to pull more ranks up, but there’s no room to maneuver!” Threlen complained over the loud clashing of weapons and the sounds of wool hitting the steel and leather of the shemlen armor.

“I know!” Revas replied as he held his shield against the rapid blows of a former guardsman, his eyes now red and sunken from the lyrium. 

It would be a battle of attrition at this rate. Who could hold out, who could stand longest, who had the most forces, and Revas knew that the hunters weren’t used to this. Fast, quick strikes were what they were trained for, not these long, drawn out affairs. If they didn’t break through the humans, and fast, they’d have to fall back and retreat. 

Almost as if by Divine Intervention, Revas felt the unmistakable movement of someone drawing on the Veil, pulling it against them from behind him. The feel of vertigo and the taste of ozone, the sensation of magic bristling in the air told him all he needed to know. He rolled his eyes at having to get bailed out by magic _again_ , but he didn’t want to lose ground either. Not after they had gained so much.

Threlen knocked back the human in front of him and turned his head to see where the magic was being drawn upon, then swung his head forward so fast, it looked as if he’d snap his neck.

“ _GET DOWN!_ ” He commanded the front lines, and with years of discipline and training, every single shield bearer kneeled to the ground, shield over their heads to protect them from incoming blows. Revas did the same, and held his breath as he waited for the magic to release and help them move forward.

What he didn’t expect was the sheer amount of force in which is was expelled; enough to push the front ranks over into the ground, and sent the human mass flying backwards. It was as if a fist had punched him in the back unexpectedly, all force and fury. Revas face planted into his shield, and when he lifted his chin, he finally saw the source of the human reinforcements. A large door, but not as large as the entrance, now slammed shut at the magical force, and the shemlen mercenaries nearests to it pressed up against the wall by that same magic. 

With an aggressive _yank_ , the magic went from forcing the mad shemlen against the walls to pulling them to the center for the entrance hallway, creating a well in which they could not escape. The hunters in the front ranks and from the back were up and running towards the mass quickly, ready to cut the humans down while they were incapacitated. It was fast and brutal and the hall was filled with the cries of mercenaries falling under Dalish blades. 

Revas got up from the ground and rubbed his nose, finding blood there from his face hitting the shield. He gave an exasperated sigh at getting hurt by magic.. _.again_...as he watched the hunters and guild members rush the now dying pile of shems. Gods, he wished it could’ve been anything but magic. 

Especially _that_ magic. He recognized it, felt it before, knew it better than he wanted to admit. It was as familiar as home. When he turned towards the source of it standing at the broken doors in which the warband entered the Nacre Palace, he wasn’t surprised to see the mage standing there among the splintered remains, as calm and collected as ever. His robes immaculate, his topknot perfect, his face as cold as stone. Revas gave another sigh, this time in knowing how utterly fucked he was now.

Keeper Paeris had arrived in Wycome. 


	35. Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Abersher'al makes a decision on how to handle the scouts; Sar'een is not impressed with the leadership of Orlais; Revas is terrified of the leadership of the Diceni.

Llyn wasn’t sure what kind of magic these Abersher’al healers used. It was effective and tingly and felt wonderful, and despite his efforts to remain stoic, he felt as smooth and pleasant as warm halla butter spread over a boiled tuber. It had to be blood magic; nothing this good be anything but.

An apprentice to the Blood of the Embers had mixed him this delicious elixir, and while he relaxed on the suspiciously comfortable mat on the floor of her airy pavilion, she poured healing energy into his tattered leg. He watched in awe as the ripped muscles and tendons began to knit themselves together, filling the empty hole where the lurker’s teeth had sunk in, while simultaneously relieving all the discomfort and throbbing pain he felt from the wound. The magic glowed as gold as the sands, and her dress was as blue as the waters of the oasis, and if Llyn didn’t know that his head was fuzzy from the drink she gave him, he’d say he was falling in love.

When she pulled her hands away, the sensation of warm wellbeing left, and he was almost disappointed that he wasn’t more wounded.

“That’s about the limits of what I can do,” the healer said apologetically, “There will still be some tenderness and bruising, but the lacerations are mostly closed. I’ll mix up a poultice to put on them until it’s completely healed to prevent a fever from setting in.”

“Thank you,” he said with the utmost sincerity, to the point of being dramatic, “I would’ve died without you.”

“Maybe,” she responded playfully as she packed her implements, “You would’ve definitely died if it weren’t for our Head Scout.”

Llyn sighed and reclined back on the soft mat. He wanted to talk about her and her wonderful hands, not some cocky Ethinan. He got enough of that back home, “Yeah, I guess. Hey, do you know if she gave my message to the Blood?”

“She did,” another voice cut into the conversation, low but warm, and he looked up to see the scion of Sylaise herself standing at the entrance to the healer’s pavilion, “Have you finished your work, Uvena?”

Uvena nodded her head vigorously, “Yes hahren. The wounds are almost closed, though there will be a lot of scarring. I made him a poultice too, to stop any fevers.”

The Blood of the Embers smiled down on her, “Very good. Go have some breakfast. I need to discuss the contents of this message with the Head Scout of Lavellan.”

The healer pushed off the ground and obeyed the command immediately, walking out of the bright pavilion without saying goodbye. Llyn would miss her. Her hands were so special.

“Your eyes are glassy,” the Blood commented as she pulled a stool next to his soft mat, “Did my apprentice give you a concoction to help the pain?”

“I think so,” he answered her, now realizing his lips felt slow and heavy, “I am certainly not feeling any pain!”

The Blood giggled fetchingly, like the soft sistrum music his clan would play during solemn hymns. It was lulling and filling, all at the same time, as if he could almost feel the sanctity in the noise. 

“I’m glad. Tala told me you put up quite the fight against that beast. Even Abersher’al’s most seasoned hunters never take on lurkers without a full party. I think she was impressed,” she spoke, but the words filled the air like dust motes, flashing gold in the sunlight streaming in the pavilion, and Llyn had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing them.

“I really wish I had the time to have a proper welcoming ceremony before discussing the matters at hand, but the Maiden’s missive indicated time was of the essence,” she continued, the gold word motes still flying in the air, dancing before his eyes in an almost seductive performance. They twisted and bent, and the tiny letters began to take on the form of bodies, their limbs moving fluidly and gracefully, enticing and alluring him with their dance. He swallowed deeply, and tried to concentrate on the Blood’s face instead.

“I understand,” he managed to say before the dancing, glittering bodies grew larger and more clear, the features of their little faces becoming discernable.

“Ma serannas, lethallin,” the Blood settled herself on the stool, smoothing out the thin linen of her dress, “Your patience will be well rewarded once time is not working against us. Now, tell me why you are here.”

The bodies began to touch one another, pressing into each other, until they formed one body between them. First one, then another, and then another, until only a few of them remained. They all still rocked their hips, their long hair brushed against their waists, and their eyes tempted him from under their thick lashes, each one glimmering like a star. Their entrancing movements made it difficult to concentrate, but he forced himself to try.

“The Maiden sent me to deliver the message to you. There are…” the bodies began to grind against each other until they too absorbed each other, leaving only one small woman peering at him from her heavy, golden lids. He closed his eyes tightly, then continued, “There are hunters in Clan Diceni being held against their will. She wants to see them freed.”

“Yes, that’s what the missive said,” The Blood confirmed, and pulled the piece of parchment from the belt at her waist, “And I can read just fine. What I need to know is _why_ The Maiden sent you and the Diceni scout, specifically.”

Llyn’s lip trembled as the golden phantom woman slowed her dancing, and climbed up his body on the mat, her skin brushing against his, sending rushes of warmth wherever it did. He frowned in an attempt to make the trembling stop. 

“I’m...I’m the leader of the-the Ethinan,” the golden phantom’s face was clear as a summer sky now, her almond shaped eyes half closed in indolence, her full lips parted, her even fuller breasts swaying in her gently climb up his body. She laid on her back on his chest, reaching her graceful arms above her head to stroke his neck and jaw. Sweat formed at his temples, “She thought the mission was too important to leave to someone else.”

_We both know that’s a lie,_ the phantom woman said, her back arching as she writhed on top of him, _I would never send someone like you for something important.You’re only good as a distraction._

“Did you have some important information about the captured hunters that she wanted you to tell me?” The Blood pressed him for more information. 

_Tell her Llyn_ , she rolled slowly then set herself up to straddle him, her thighs open like the doors to a sacred temple. She leaned over and hovered above his face, her breath smelling of honey and wildflowers, and the air around her lingering with the scent of amber. He began to sweat more, his skin becoming sticky and hot, and he couldn’t stop from imagining how sticky and hot the phantom was as well. _Tell her that I would never trust you to carry my secrets._

“I, uh...I wish I could tell you more, but the Maiden just wanted me to escort Sellarin…” he drifted off as the molten gold of her hair fell over her bare shoulder and onto his face, making him flush as his blood raced through him.

_You couldn’t even do that right_ , her words became the golden motes, just like the Blood’s did only moments before, beginning the fantasy anew. Though this time, the motes touched his face and melted against it, filling his head with a heavy dizziness. It was as if he were intoxicated on the best wine imaginable, and the drowsiness that started to overtake him was almost a disappointment in the face of his fantasies idealized. _You’re lucky I throw you any bones at all._

“Sellarin..” The Blood chewed on the word as if it were food, “Why is Sellarin so important to this mission?”

_Sellarin is more important than you could ever hope to be. Isn’t that right, Llyn?_ She nestled her lips against his ear, and whispered the golden words. They traveled through him and inside of him, igniting his heartbeat. He was finding it difficult to breathe. 

“She...she knows the captured hunters,” he gasped, causing the Blood to furrow her eyebrows in concern, “She knows where they’re being kept.”

_This is why you can’t be trusted, Llyn_ , she said in a sing-song voice as her fingertips brushed over his wounded thigh, _even the most simple tasks are lost on you. How amusing that you ever entertained the thought of catching my attention._

“You sent me, didn’t you?” He asked the golden woman groggily, “Can’t be that useless.”

“Excuse me?” The Blood asked him, though her voice sounded very distant now. The sunlight in the pavilion was dimming, and he was only left with spinning sands of gold surrounding him and the phantom.

_You’re only alive because your betters saw to it. Everything you have done, everything you have been...it was all a joke,_ her laugh was husky and beautiful, and her questing hand filled him with an undeniable desire. He wanted the Blood to go away so he could give into the dream. _And look... Still so eager to prove yourself to me._

She began to grind herself against his hip, wrapping her legs up in his, winding her arms around his neck like the muscled body of a serpent, _Maybe I’ll let you prove yourself. The desert does get so lonely, and I am burning up in need. Can you quench my thirsts, Llyn?_ She laughed again, maliciously, loudly, _I doubt you ever could. It would end in failure for you and disappointment for me. You’d benefit more from watching a man more talented than you in every way do the job you can’t. Do you want that? Do you want him to show you how to please me?_

“Please,” he rasped out, the sweat pouring down from his body, soaking him and the mat, “Please, please, please.”

He chanted it like a prayer, an incantation. He was disgusted and damaged and broken by her, but he still wanted to see it, even if it couldn’t be him. Nothing else mattered. His eyes were heavy, like tiny weights, and he closed them to alleviate that heaviness. Slumber took him, finally, and he dreamed in awestruck horror as he watched as his darkest thoughts were brought to life with a clarity that frightened him. Thoughts of the Maiden, golden and naked like the day she was initiated, mocking him as she let his lifelong friend do things to her that Llyn had always dreamed of but never could. 

\---

Ellya was very concerned at the pale, clammy hunter that tossed and mumbled in his sleep on the mat in Uvena’s pavilion. He fell asleep mid-conversation, his eyes glazed over and mumbling to things in the room that didn’t exist, and somehow she knew it was not a sickness setting in. She pressed her palm to his forehead, letting the cool tendrils of her healing magic curl around him, but there was no fever to lift, and she was left wondering what went wrong. 

Stepping off her stool and looking at the implements Uvena had used on him earlier, she noticed dark dregs at the bottom of the vial that held the pain elixir. The fluid was usually milky and white, but as she picked up the vial to examine it, she saw the black stamen of some flower floating in the droplets that clung to the glass bottom. Those were not part of the formula she had taught her apprentice to prepare. 

She placed the nearly empty vial in the pocket of her skirts and left the hunter to rest in the pavilion. He would be fine after some rest, she was sure, but his memory would be diminished afterwards. Ellya recognized the stamen from the blood lotus, a plant that caused hallucinations. Just a whiff of its pollen was enough to have some effects, so this was either done by an amateur, or by someone who did not want the head Ethinan from Clan Lavellan to be able to talk. When she walked outside, both Tala and Uvena waited for her. 

“Well?” Tala asked impatiently, her arms crossed over her chest. She was annoyed at Ellya’s insistence of doing the questioning herself. 

“Did you prepare the pain elixir yourself, Uvena?” she ignored Tala’s demand for information and started to collect her own.

The healer nodded, “Yes. I made it rather weak too, since Lavellan doesn’t have access to vandal aria. They have to use standard elfroot potions for healing and pain management.”

“Hmm,” Ellya bit her lip in thought. She knew Uvena was young and impressionable in some regards, but she took her work very seriously. Her eagerness to learn as an apprentice in healing herbs and alchemy was always sincere, and Ellya enjoyed teaching her very much. She very much doubted the girl slipped in the stamen. 

“Something wrong?” Tala pressed her again.

“Thank you for your help, da’len,” she addressed Uvena, “The hunter’s full recovery will be a credit to your hard work. But you needn’t fret and hover over the pavilion. Take care of yourself as well.”

“I will, hahren. Thank you,” the girl bowed her head gently, then turned to finally get the breakfast Ellya has directed her to eat. She watched her disappear towards the cooking fires, she pointed her chin towards the edge of camp. Tala nodded, understanding what she wanted immediately, and they went to walk the borders of the oasis together.

Ellya took the vial out of her pocket once they were away from the busy confines of the camp and showed it to the scout. Tala took it swiftly, held it up towards the sun to see the contents fully, then passed it back to her, all within a few heartbeats. She was always so skilled at taking in information quickly.

“You got nothing from him, if that black stamen is anything to go by,” she observed, “Uvena?”

Ellya gave a heavy sigh, “If she did, I don’t think it was intentional. You know how messy her workspace is.”

“Or someone could have sabotaged the elixir while Uvena was distracted,” Tala pointed out, “You know how easily distracted she is too.”

They strolled slowly around the oasis, their feet sinking into the warm sands, the sun hot and bright overhead, the smell of the water in the air making it feel heavy and wet, and their fingers intertwined. Ellya appreciated her most in moments like this, when her vision might not be as clear as she would like, and she needed keen eyes to look at the same thing she was. And yet, she knew Tala had her own grudges and suspicions, and that no opinions were entirely objective. 

“That may be so, but his story matched the story the Diceni told us. He was meant as an escort for her, and she was the one who Keeper Paeris had tried to silence for what she saw happening on the steppes. If she’s telling the truth, this is very...troubling.”

Tala frowned as she watched the sands shift under their feet, “ _If_. And I don’t believe for a second she is. Why would Keeper Paeris force dissidents to manual labor and then leave them to handle the judgment of the Maiden? The Diceni are the largest clan in the north and they have the largest Council. So much of what Paeris has wanted to do has been kept in check by them and the Warlord. Not the mention the Hand of Vengeance. It just makes no sense.”

“But Threlen and the Hand were in Autini, aiding Lavellan against the mercenary army that marched on them. Paeris could have persuaded the Council while they were away into his corner,” Ellya put the idea forward, “We both know how persistent he can be.”

She spoke of the many letters and personal visits Keeper Paeris had given to Clan Abersher’al in an attempt to have more open trade between the two clans. Although Ellya had not been against many of his proposals, her great aunt Gherlanna, a steadfast traditionalist, shut the entire process down. Gherlanna had been a member of the Triumvirate for decades, and felt the Diceni Keeper was nothing more than an upstart trying to vie for more notoriety. No arguments by Ellya or Remada, the clan’s Hearth Matron, would convince Keeper Gerlanna of the good trading for easily stored grain and other items could do. 

“And we both know how desperate the Maiden is too,” Tala brought up the obvious, “This could all be a diversion tactic to gain time and influence in order to outplay her brother.”

Ellya shook her head, “No. I don’t believe she’d do that. We’ve worked together many times, and the relations between our clans are excellent. We have trade agreements and treaties. Why would she throw that away on a gamble?”

Tala stopped walked and turned to face her, “She’s not like you, ma’lath. She isn’t a scion because she wants to serve the goddess. Elain wears the Mantle because she wants the Dalish to serve her. To prop herself up. To get as much power as she can. And she doesn’t care who she has to hurt to get it.”

“ _Venavis_ ,” Ellya said sharply as she turned her head away from her, “She may be ambitious, but Elain has never put herself before the People.”

“Not yet! But who knows how long that will last,” Tala argued, “We can’t trust these scouts, and we can’t trust that the Maiden isn’t misleading us for her own plans.”

“I just don’t understand _why_ she would do that!”

“ _Why_ would someone drug her head Ethinan while under Abersher’al’s care? _Why_ would her letter be so vague about the situation? _Why_ would she wait for Keeper Paeris to be away from the steppes before sending these scouts to us?” Tala’s voice rose in her frustration, “It doesn’t add up and you can’t pull a shroud over your eyes this time!”

“The scout being drugged is most likely a coincidence. Uvena has made mistakes like this before, and the Diceni has been under close watch...by _your_ orders,” she reminded her partner, “Still...this is a delicate situation. If we refuse to help Elain, we are possibly sabotaging our good standing with Lavellan and won’t get to have first bids on excess weapons and armor that Vhannas produces. Not to mention my relationship with the Maiden would be at jeopardy…”

Tala huffed, “No great loss, if you ask me.”

Ellya sighed and rolled her eyes, “And if we do aid Elain, there is the possibility of starting a feud with Keeper Paeris and the Diceni. I’m sworn by Sylaise to take the Vir Atish’an; to avoid confrontation at all costs. Peace must be maintained.”

“Then ignore the request and send the scouts back to Lavellan. Simple.”

“I don’t feel comfortable making that decision on my own,” she admitted, “It’s best that I have them meet before the Triumvirate.”

“What’s the point?” Tala was beginning to get exasperated, “You know Keeper Gherlanna is just going to make the same decision. Why do you let her have the last say when you know what to do already?”

“Because this is not a dictatorship, Tala. I am not the sole voice of Peace. I do not decide what to do with _our people_ lightly. My opinions are not without flaws, and despite my title and role, I cannot push Abersher’al to follow my whims and mine alone!” she snapped at her partner. Tala’s eyes narrowed at the sharpness at her words, but Ellya did not want to have an argument. She reined her temper in, and closed her eyes to center herself.

“There are systems in place for a reason,” she calmed herself and attempted to explain gently, “And it’s what has kept our clan alive for four centuries. Even though Elain is my friend and Sister, I cannot throw that away for her. I will bring the scouts before the Triumvirate, and we’ll decide then.”

Tala kicked the loose sand with her foot in her frustration, then let her shoulders fall in defeat, “Whatever you say. I still think it’s pointless.”

“Whether it is or not, it still needs to be done. Some traditions are worth preserving,” Ellya redirected their path back to the oasis, their conversation over with her decision. She linked her arm with her partner’s, and rested her head against her shoulder. Tala was merely trying to protect her, to make sure she didn’t get caught up in someone’s scheme. She appreciated it, even if Tala couldn’t see the importance of letting the Triumvirate decide.

“Worth preserving, huh? Even if it comes to bite you in the ass?” Tala asked her.

“At all costs,” was her reply. 

\---

Sar’een had expected whispers. Maybe outright gasps and snickers. Her conscious decision to wear the garish mask was meant to elicit a response like that. It was the face of a pigeon, the birds in the city that were no better than rats, feeding off the waste and perching themselves in the most hard to reach places. Easily spotted, but impossible to remove. No city was pristine because of them. No city was untouched. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan, of the Inquisition!” the herald had called, and when the room went utterly silent, Sar’een knew the biting commentary on her position of the Orlesian Court was not unnoticed. 

She crossed the marbled ballroom floor, her boots making heavy clanking noises against the stone, filling the impossibly loud room with her footsteps and little else. The masks the nobles wore were no longer regal, or even jovial. Their beauty as they stared her down became a piercing, degraded thing. The long lines of their masks turned sharp and mocking, and the flighty Counts and Countesses were suddenly as stony and serious as a statue of the Prophetess Herself. Sar’een swallowed deeply, already questioning her choices she had made. 

“Do not let them see you falter, darling,” Vivienne whispered next to her, though her face did not show concern. The smile she wore under the moonstone-encrusted mask was more beautiful than than any of the gems, “Hold your head up and square your shoulders. You have nothing to fear from them.”

Sar’een did as Vivienne instructed. Though she didn’t feel the confidence Madame de Fer exuded, she needed to make sure the Court did not know that. She tried her best to channel Elain as she did so. The Maiden would never let a roomful of shemlen outshine her or make her cower. She would stroll in with the Mantle as if she had belonged there the entire time. Her steps became lighter as she tried to emulate Elain’s authority, and she held the looks of some of the nobles in the room, to show she wasn’t afraid. 

And that she was not to be trifled with. 

Once Vivienne was satisfied with her progression, she moved away from her, walking with her advisors to the side of the staircase that led up to an overlooking balcony on the far end of the ballroom. Sar’een would have to walk that path alone.

“Welcome to Halamshiral, Lady Inquisitor!” 

Empress Celene stood on that dimly lit balcony above the ballroom, the moonlight backlighting her light hair, making it glow like a halo. The sconces and candelabra of the dance floor also reflected off her golden mask, and the thin strips of gold that were shaped into her collar to make it mimic a sunburst. It was done deliberately, no doubt, to make her seem the benevolent savior of the pious empire, but she looked anything but to Sar’een. Under the staged lighting and costume, Sar’een saw worry lines that turned the Empress’ thin lips downward. Creases in the corners of her eyes, and bags underneath denoting a lack of sleep. Her pallor was also flushed, but in an artifical way. Rouge had been applied liberally to her cheeks to give her a youthful glow, but it only looked artificial and desperate to Sar’een.

Celene was attempting to be something Sar’een knew she was not, and it only strengthened her resolve. Any lingering thoughts of the silent judgment of the nobles evaporated immediately, and she was left with the same resentment she had felt the weeks leading up to this. This woman, who wore a different mask for every occasion, was the one who put on the heavy one of the warlord as she slaughtered the elves in this very city, burning them out like vermin. Sar’een would not forget that. 

“Your welcome is most gracious, Your Majesty,” the words slid out as smooth as silk and Sar’een bowed at the waist to complete the illusion, “It is an honor to be here this evening.”

“The honor is all ours,” Celene responded warmly, her accent slight but pleasant. She waved her hand gracefully over the gathering, making the light catch the gold threaded fabric of her sleeves and reflect on the towering ceiling of the room, “How do you find the city?”

Sar’een lifted her head and stared into the elegant Empress’ face with her own subversive mask, “A crown jewel of the Dales. One would not even miss the decadence and glamour of Val Royeaux when you stop to watch the butterflies land on the petals of the endlessly blooming flowers of Halamshiral, Your Majesty.”

A small twitch in the corner of that mouth that turned into a smile, imperceptible to a human, but Sar’een could see in the dark just fine; both literally and metaphorically. And the path in front of her would be shrouded and dark, of that she had no doubt. No matter how bright and glorious Orlais looked, she knew there were shadows everywhere, waiting to swallow an elf like her. And the Empress cast the longest one.

“Halamshiral is truly a place that blossoms in the spring, full of hope and new life. We always enjoy our stays here in the summer, when the natural beauty of the city is on full display,” the Empress answered humbly, though it was anything but humble. _Full of hope and new life_. Another pretty lie from the noble lips of Orlais.

Celene turned to her side slightly, where another woman was waiting patiently. Her subtle gesture queued the woman to come forward, and she did so with a bow. Her outfit was not nearly as heavily weighted with symbolism as Celene’s, but the collar mimicking a butterfly’s wings and the cream color against her pale skin was still no less striking. 

“May We introduce the host of the grand meeting, without whom, talks of peace would not have occurred,” the Empress laid words of commendation on the woman, who still held her head low, “Grand Duchess Florianne of Lydes.”

Sar’een bowed to the waist again, “An honor, Your Grace.”

“The honor is all mine, I’m sure,” the Grand Duchess declared. Her accent was heavier than Celene’s, more pronounced, with a coyness that alluded to her interest in Sar’een’s presence at these peace talks. It Orlesian through and through. 

“We will not keep you any longer, Lady Inquisitor. Enjoy the food, the drink, the dance,” Celene cut any conversation with the Grand Duchess short, probably trying to move onto other guests who were waiting, “We would greatly enjoy you doing all three in your...interesting mask.”

“Your Majesty,” Sar’een bowed once more, loathing every second she did, then moved up the stairs on her left side that led to the upper level of the ballroom. New conversations with the Empress continued behind her, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding now that it was over.

Vivienne waved to her from beside a large window where she and Leliana stood, and Sar’een made her way towards them, pulling her mask off her face now that the spectacle was finished. 

“Darling, you did wonderfully,” Vivienne commended her. Sar’een shrugged.

“I did okay. She got a needle in me with the mask, but that was expected. Somehow, I don’t think she’s going to want to have a face-to-face conversation with me.”

“You’re right. Celene is not ignorant of plots that could be hatched against her tonight...including assassination,” Leliana joined the conversation, her voice low so as not to draw attention, “She will attempt to stay as surrounded as possible. It will discourage potential assassins, and provide a buffer for her if some do breach security here.”

“Speaking of...how is the security tonight?” Sar’een asked. 

“Parts of the palace are closed off, and there is the standard honor guard, of course,” her spymaster assessed the situation, “No more than what is usual though. The Game is far more dangerous than than any soldier in the Winter Palace. It would be best if we cover all our fronts in that regard.”

“Boring boring boring,” Sera interrupted their conversation as she strode up to the small group standing idly by the window overlooking the west gardens of the palace. She was wearing her matching horse mask, and when she spoke, Sar’een couldn’t help the snort that escaped her, “ _Game_ this and _snob twits_ that. How about we have some fun?”

“Are assassination attempts and matching wits with the richest, most powerful members of Orlesian society not fun?” Vivienne teased her. Sera could never see when the mage was poking fun, and slumped her shoulders backwards dramatically.

“ _Blah **blah**_ , that’s all I hear. I’m talkin’ about _real fun_. The kind of fun that could ruin some of these rich tits’ day, yeah?” Sera smiled wickedly.

“It’s a rather subversive way to come out on top of the Game, but not necessarily the wrong way,” Leliana mused, “Whatever you choose Inquisitor, Lady Vivienne and I will be your eyes and ears among the Court.”

“See? Already all figured out. Let bird lady and Madame de Priss Miss take care of this shite, and we’ll get to the good stuff.”

Sar’een bit her lip in thought, weighing her options. Getting information from members of the Court would be difficult, but without their approval, any action she took could be met with retaliation. However, if she was going to save this Empress, she needed to be able to move and ask questions to uncover anything strange. They had already planned for her to try to get information from the servants and staff, and now might be the best time to get it.

“Alright Sera. Let’s do some investigating. Any leads?”

Her friend giggled nearly maniacally, whatever secrets and clues she already uncovered obviously amusing her more than it should, “Some overs and unders and ups and downs, but we have to get away from all this fancy pish first.”

“Then lead the way.”

The two made to leave the grand ballroom and explore the Winter Palace’s every nook and cranny; Sera intending to have fun, and Sar’een meaning to shine a light on all the dark plots at work. When she thought about it though, she decided that it may be fun for her too. Just a little.

“Be careful dears!” Vivienne’s lecture floated over the gentle music as they tried to escape the choking crowd of the Orlesian court, “Those trousers are Dales laden wool. I would hate to see them ruined.”

\---

“Hold the door until we can come up with a plan,” Revas ordered Twig and Lavellan’s elite hunters standing before him, their eyes alert and their backs straight. Despite fighting and moving nearly non-stop since they arrived at the Nacre Palace’s gates, they were still ready and able to make a stand. It made him proud to be a hunter with them. That camaraderie was something that couldn’t be broken, couldn’t be replaced, and it was a never ending frustration that the Maiden felt above it. But she wasn’t here now.

“We can’t walk headfirst into another ambush, and it looks like that’s all these humans know how to do. They’re throwing everything they have at us because they’re desperate. They know we’re winning,” his continued his orders, but felt a set of eyes staring at the back of his head. It was distracting and unnerving, all at once, “This lyrium has really messed them up so they’re fighting raw. Don’t take any chances. If you see something, hear something, send a signal right away so Warlord Threlen and I can bring up the rear. Got it?”

“On your orders,” Twig spoke for them all, their steady nods an unspoken agreement of the understanding of their task. They resumed their holding position against the door leading into the main hall of the palace, keeping it fortified until he and Threlen could think of something to prevent any more chaos. Even if they were alert and ready to fight, exhaustion would be settling in for many of them very soon.

Once he knew the door was safe against another surge, he turned around to meet the eyes that had been boring a hole through his skull. Revas wasn’t surprised to see it was Paeris standing near Threlen, listening to the Warlord speak, but keeping part of his attention focused on him. A pit settled in his stomach at the thought of talking to the Keeper again, especially now. 

The last time had been four years ago. A quick stop on the steppes before Elain and her entourage headed further north to see The Last Breath in Clan Briathos, and the visit had been cold. The weather was cold, the people were cold, and the invisible ties connecting the Keeper of the Diceni and the Maiden had been the coldest. Revas would’ve made an effort to speak with the hunters of the clan and try to find common ground, like he usually did, but even the hunters felt the tension between the siblings. It had been a blessing that Paeris’ second child was born during that visit. Something to distract both him and Elain from the emotional distance and awkward rivalry that had grown between them.

Revas knew his visit now would be one hundred times worse than that stop in the steppes. He had arrived with all the stark discipline and military force of a commander of an army, and nothing Elain could do here would outplay the show of power Paeris could summon. There was just no use fighting it. 

With a sigh and a churning in his gut, Revas crossed the vestibule --still covered in the bodies of the slaughtered guardsmen and mercenaries-- mindfully so as not so trip and fall over their victory. When he approached the most powerful men in Clan Diceni, he suddenly felt like a kid again. Paeris always did that to him. Made him feel scared and vulnerable, like all his work and accomplishments were just grains of sand in the mighty beach that was Paeris’ influence on the Dalish.

“Shem’assan,” the Keeper called him over, a smile curling up on his lip, “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck as he approached, looking down towards the ground, “How’d you get in here?”

Paeris narrowed his eyes at the question, sizing him up to see if he really didn’t know. Something he always hated about him. Questions could never just be questions…and answers could never just be answers either.

“Through the front gate of the city,” he explained, as if Revas should’ve already known. His tone was low and condescending, making him feel like he was less than dirt, “The way was clear, as were the walls. Not one soldier or guardsman on watch. Once inside, it was easy enough to find the warband.”

“Did you bring extra hunters?” Threlen finally spoke up, and Revas fought to hide his relief.

“Yes, but I left half of them on the outside of the city gates. Once I found out that the Maiden had ordered a march on Wycome, I couldn’t justify staying in Autini and waiting for her to return. It was my duty to help any way I could,” Paeris explained himself to the Warlord, but Threlen’s good eye keep darting back to the carefully guarded entrance, “Which brings me to my own question: where is my sister? I had assumed she would be here fighting with you.”

Revas snorted, “She’s eight months pregnant and reckless, but even she knows this is dangerous. The rest of Lavellan’s hunters and the city’s Thieves Guild are holding the alienage with her in case we get overrun.”

“Good. At least she had the sense to not charge into the palace in her condition,” he replied tersely, “Now what do we know about the situation here?”

In a moment of respite for Revas, Threlen explained the red lyrium to his Keeper; very quickly and without any embellishment. Paeris nodded as he heard of the corpses in the Catacombs, the red lyrium that almost seemed to hum, the humans with the glowing eyes and weak bodies. He took it all in quickly as well. There was no disbelief or shock that many other hunters and Guildmembers went through. It wasn’t surprising, of course, but somehow Revas had hoped Paeris had changed since he last saw him. 

Sometimes he found himself missing the man he used to know. The older brother who took it upon himself to watch over and protect Elain and all her friends. The one who took them swimming in the lake and threw them into the water as they squealed and asked for more. But there was blood in Revas mouth and battle on the horizon. Paeris had changed, and so had he. Everything changed. He was learning that now...albeit slowly. 

“The moving of the city elves out of the alienage explains the group we ran into at the tributaries outside of the city,” Paeris interrupted his thoughts, “They were half starved and terrified of the water. I tried to speak with them to find out what happened, but they were too frightened to give me any useful information. All that has happened here...it’s unnsettling.”

So some had lived. He knew Yemet would be relieved to hear that, despite the condition that Paeris found them in. 

“It is,” Threlen replied quietly, “I dread to see what new horrors this palace has to offer.”

“Me too. But there isn’t much choice? We have to move forward,” Revas replied, “I’d bet my life that the Duke and the remaining forces are holed up together. They’ll attempt to make a last stand now that we’ve cut so many of them down. Is Aneth’ail recovered enough to help?”

Warlord Threlen looked over his shoulder, then shook his head, “These feats always drain him. He will do us little good for another few hours. Time we do not have right now. We’ll move forward without him.”

“You have me, for what it’s worth,” Paeris folded his arms over his chest, “Any aid I can provide.”

He shuddered at the thought of him using his magic again, but he also knew necessity. _Your doubts cannot interfere with the greater good_ , as his father used to say.

“I won’t say _‘no’_ to it, but I’d appreciate if you kept my face in tact next time,” Revas attempted to deflect his fears by baiting the Keeper, “Can’t keep your sister happy with a busted up mouth.”

“Funny,” Paeris responded dryly.

“Try to have some respect for a scion, Banal’ras,” Threlen said sharply, “You of all people should know better.”

He pulled his bow off his back and clenched the grip tightly. His quiver was still thankfully full from him recovering arrows, and his axe, though bloody, was still useable as well. They had wasted enough time catching Paeris up with all that happened, and Revas did not want to lose sight of their end goal. 

“I know that the Maiden will have me skinned alive if her Prey gets away,” he spoke over his shoulder as he went to rally the rest of the hunters again, walking away from the little circle, “And I don’t know about you, but I want to actually live to see my kid born.”

Revas nearly smiled when he heard the footsteps of Paeris and Threlen following behind him to gather the Diceni forces. Nearly, but he was too focused on the task at hand. He’d let Elain play politics with her brother once this was all over. Let her handle the scheming and the plotting and the rumors and the underhanded logistics, and he would concentrate on his job: finding the best way to kill his target. 

And he was very good at his job. 


	36. Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elven warband take the Nacre Palace.

_“This was unacceptable, Guardsman. Kirkwall cannot afford mistakes like this in the Guard that is meant to protect them.”_

_Guard Captain Aveline’s voice was low and level, a testament to the patience and control she had over her temper. She was angry at Donovan. So angry that her face was red and her lips were turning white from being pressed together so hard. He had made a mistake. A bigger one than he could recover from this time._

_“It was just an oxman, Guard Captain. Not even…” he trailed off when her mouth turned into a frown and her eyebrows lifted, “He wasn’t a resident of the city. And he didn’t listen to my orders to drop his weapon! Protocol dictates that if a suspect does not surrender their weapons and act as a threat, lethal force is excusable.”_

_“Don’t quote protocol at me, Guardsman. I’m the one who wrote it. Along with the rules also state that you are to try to diffuse the situation before lethal force is used,” Aveline snapped at him, slamming her palms down on her desk, “The Viscount’s son is dead and one of the Qunari you killed was the one who killed Seamus’ murderer. The city is on edge, the Arishok is on edge, the Chantry has been fanning the flames against the Qunari, and everyone just seems to be murdering in retaliation. You didn’t follow any protocol; you just threw more oil on the fire!”_

_His lip stiffened at her accusations. Donovan knew he didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing he hadn’t been taught to do. He refused to be bombarded and scapegoated._

_“He murdered a Chantry Mother. Whether she killed the Viscount’s son or not is irrelevant. It’s not the Arishok or his lackey’s job to enact justice on Kirkwall’s citizens. That’s OUR job!”_

_“Our job is to protect Kirkwall’s citizens, not act as judge, jury, and executioner, Guardsman. You murdered a man that you and your fellow guard attacked unprovoked, Qunari or not. I can not and will not let it stand. The answer to murder is not more murder,” the Guard Captain moved around from the other side of her desk, “This isn’t your first foray into vigilante justice, but it’ll be your last Donovan. Step forward.”_

_The command was cold, as was her face. He knew in his gut what was coming. Nearly knew it when the oxman’s blood was spilled in Lowtown’s streets._

_“Guardsman Donovan. For your reckless disregard of life and blatant disregard of orders, you are hereby discharged from the Kirkwall Guard. You are stripped of your rank of Deputy. There is no reconciliation period. You cannot appeal the decision or wait and rejoin at a lower rank. You are barred from ever acting as Guard in Kirkwall, and are stripped of your reserve service in the Amalgamated Guard of the Free Marches. You are dismissed.”_

_Though he had suspected it, the shock still hit him like ice cold water. He thought he might be demoted, or suspended, or maybe even ostracized. But he never thought he’d be completely dismissed. No chance to rejoin, no chance to work his way back up...no chance to even join the Guard in another Marcher city. He was swept away and gone, like dirt on a floor._

_Donovan pulled the metal insignia of Kirkwall off his armor and placed it on the Guard Captain’s desk, then left her office without another word. What’s done was done._

_As he walked out into the Harvestmere morning of the Viscount’s Way, he consciously made himself face that this would be the last time he’d be here. There would be no strolls up Hightown to check his schedule, to get his weapons sharpened, to fill out paperwork and reports. He killed an oxman murderer, and now his life was over. He thought was he was doing was right, he thought he was following protocols, thought thought thought._

_Didn’t think it through enough, apparently. Now he had to think about how he was going to feed Rita and himself. This was their only income, their only way of surviving. It’d been the only job he’d ever had, the only training he’d ever gone through, the only life he’d ever know. He was a guard. He lifted his sword in protection for pay, and without that, Donovan didn’t know who he was anymore._

_His feet took him nearby to the steps that led up to the Chantry. The crowds in the morning seemed like buzzing insects flitting and flying about, and his mind was a fog as he passed through the great doors that lead to the hallowed walls. He didn’t know how or why he went there, just that it was where his body needed to be._

_Inside was quiet. Unless there was a mass, it usually was. The low chorus of the Chant could be heard by lay sisters in the upper balconies of the cathedral, but that was lost to him too. He looked up at the base of the great statue of Andraste, where it was said Seamus Dumar was killed not two days before. Elegant ribbons tied off the short stairways that led up to the altar, giving credence to the whispers._

_Donovan didn’t need to go up there. He sat in an empty pew and simply stared. The grandeur of the Maker’s Bride seemed to mock him, gazing down on him with judgmental eyes as She wielded the Sword of Mercy in her grip. If only he had known mercy. If only. He dipped his head into his hands and silently prayed for something to stop the ache in his chest._

_“You look lost,” a mother said quietly next to him. He hadn’t heard her approach, and truthfully, did not want it. He wasn’t looking for absolution. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. It was definitely not this woman he had seen since his youth when his own mother brought him to listen to the Chant._

_“Just wanted a moment of peace,” he replied hoarsely, clutching his hands together. The mother did not take the hint, and sat next to him on the pew._

_“Peace is difficult to find in this world,” she said as she smoothed her vestments, “Even these very walls have incited violence as of late. There seems to be no safe haven for those looking for respite in this world.”_

_“There’s no safe haven because no one is willing to do what’s necessary to make one,” he said between gritted teeth._

_“And what is necessary, child? Hatred? Death?” the mother questioned him, “Do not think I am not aware of why you’re here. You were rightly punished for your actions. We cannot reward murder with more murder.”_

_“They took the choice away from us!” he nearly shouted, frustrated at how this mother always managed to chastise him on every occasion she saw him, “The Viscount wasn’t going to punish the killer of his son’s murderer. The Guard Captain is too cowardly to approach the Arishok. And the Grand Cleric watched it all unfold without saying a word! Is this justice!? Is this how the city should be run? I didn’t join the Guard to turn a blind eye and I’ll be damned if I let someone get away with doing our job for us!”_

_“There is no ‘_ us’ _. You are not a guardsman anymore,” she said before pursing her lips and folding her hands over each other in her lap, “I knew you’d let that streak of moral superiority would get you stuck in a mess, Erick. Why didn’t you listen to me when I told you to join the Templars?”_

_“Because I didn’t want to be a Templar, grandmother! I didn’t want to be some babysitter for mages while the Chantry rotted my brain away. That was your choice!” Donovan couldn’t keep his voice lowered anymore, and stood up from the pew, ready to leave. He didn’t know why he came. Didn’t know what he expected. She never understood._

_“The Chantry has given me more peace than I could have ever hoped for. Your anger and frustration over the collapse of everything around you could be helped if only you listened to me,” his grandmother said stiffly. She always got so stiff when he told her no, “But you’d rather run away than do what’s good for you. Stick your fingers in your ears and pretend that nothing you do is wrong. But you were. Justice isn’t for you to decide.”_

_He couldn’t take another word of her incessant lecturing, and walked down the long hallway of the Chantry to go somewhere he could actually think. Away from the choking smoke of the candles and incense, away from the lilting voices singing the Chant, away from the judgmental eyes of Andraste and his grandmother._

_“You’re going to end up just like your father, Erick,” she called out after him, her false concern making him irate._

_He stormed out of the suffocating atmosphere of that discriminate cage. It loomed behind him, casting a shadow over the path through the upper district of the city. It was the source of everything that destroyed his life. The place that led to the him standing in Lowtown, his sword in the belly of that heretic oxman, his face turned downward as he yanked it back out of him and the Qunari sank to the ground in death. What his grandmother couldn’t tear out of him with her sharp words was torn out of him at the sharp end of his weapon._

_It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. No one was getting justice. He gave it. He gave what the city needed, not what the Guard Captain or the Viscount or the Chantry or his grandmother wanted. And everything was taken away from him for it. He was repaid for having the courage to act by being stripped of everything he was._

_He spit on the ground in his anger, resentful of the city that couldn’t appreciate what he had given them. Maybe Kirkwall wouldn’t appreciate it, but he knew someone who would. Someone who would give him work and not question him exercising his best judgment. No more protocol, no more cowards._

_Maybe his grandmother was right. Maybe he was like his father. But Glover always put food on the table._

_There were worse people to be._

_\---_

Donovan had to hand it to these knife-ears: they were relentless.

He had thought that cutting them down would be easy. The Autini Valley was isolated and barren in the winter, making corralling them up and finishing them off a cinch. But he had underestimated the reach of the Inquisition and the resolution of the clan. Wycome was supposed to be different; wipe out the elves in the alienage first, wait for the clan to ride in, then cut them down in a clean ambush. That didn’t work either.

Donovan, Lokka, the Duke, and even his Tevinter advisor couldn’t have anticipated the savages to call up demons to help them, thought he knew it shouldn’t have surprised him. These Dalish were brutal by anyone’s standards, and his father had paid the price of veering too close to them with his head. Now, as Donovan stood in the throne room of the Nacre Palace, all the old cedar tables overturned and barricading the door, he couldn’t help but see all the hints of their downfall piling up. Piled up just as high as the last ditch effort to hold them back. Hindsight was a cruel bitch.

“Your Grace, perhaps now would be the time to call a retreat,” Atrius suggested from his perch next to Antoine on the throne, “The guardsmen and everyone left are exhausted and ill. Once these savages break through, they will take advantage of that.”

“I won’t leave my city,” the Duke snapped at him in agitation, “Not today, not tomorrow, not _ever_. Even with the bad song, She’s still mine. My blood and tears have kept Wycome alive and if She falls, then I die with her!”

The last words were almost spat, spittle dripping down from the Duke’s mouth as he pushed them out. He didn’t have the strength to wipe his face, and Atrius leaned over with his sleeve, dabbing the corners of the Duke’s now down-turned mouth.

“Retreating is not a sign of defeat, Your Grace. It is merely a way for you to recover from your losses. The other Marcher cities will not stand for this elven rebellion. They will happily give you the forces you need to overwhelm this filth.”

“No!” the Duke shouted, “No no no! You can’t see it Atrius, but I can! The dark song wafts in the air and I can see it as clear as my mother’s face. It’s _death;_ the most vile death. Death spoken through teeth chattering in fear. The corruption of it is too deep. If I let these elves take my beloved city, their evil corruption will never leave again. They will feed their abhorrent magic the corpse of Wycome, and the beautiful song of Her shores will not return. I must stay to see this through. I must!”

He pounded his fist on the armrest of his chair, knocking loose two pristine pearls that bounced on the marble floor and rolled down the dias. They gathered crowd watched them intently, as if the Duke’s anger was an augur and the Maker was pushing the gems towards His portents. They rolled until they no longer did, stopped by the lavish Rivaini rugs sprawled out on the central path of the hall, and the the quiet awe of their journey was rudely interrupted by the loud, echoing sound of the elves crashing into the entrance doors. 

Lokka had long ago locked himself up with the non-combatants in the private suites of the upper wing of the palace. Donovan had half expected him to slink away and out of the city to safety, but the only way out was the Catacombs, and the dwarf seemed to be more scared of that than anything these elves could do. Still, he’d sit in relative comfort with the other nobles of the city, smoking his cigars, making new connections and deals, while Donovan and what was left of the hired mercs would hold out with their lives. Lokka knew if he ingratiated himself with the right people, he’d walk away alive. 

The great blue doors, with their great ivory hands carved to look like the tentacles of an octopus, began to crack and split, the paint now marred by the unfinished wood underneath. The shouts of the elven warband could be heart through the barrier the Duke had had erected, and Donovan could tell the rest of the mercenaries under his command were nervous. They should be. There was no secret route for them to escape, no nobles to suck up to to save their lives. Either they win today, or they die. 

If the elves hadn’t had powerful magic, the day might have been won. It most likely would have. But Donovan was no templar, and didn’t prepare for that kind of assault. It was surprising too that Atrius did not bring up his knowledge of elven blood rituals and demon summoning until after the battle was lost. Well, it would have been surprising, if Donovan hadn’t overhead his own plotting. The Tevinter had an ulterior motive for being in Wycome, but he was just too tired to care what it was. Let the fight come instead. He could deal with that. 

And it did.

They broke through suddenly, and rushed into the great hall of the Nacre Palace like a swarm of locusts, destroying all the tables and miscellaneous furniture Donovan had the mercs set up to slow the warband down. The warband didn’t even touch the barricade; it merely exploded across the room, as if it was touched by some invisible force. Donovan tightened the grip on his shield, and readied himself for the hit.

Others had not had the knowledge or training or good sense to do the same. The hail of arrows rose up and over the charging front ranks, flying across the hall with ease. There were no walls to stop them, no low ceilings. The pinpoint aim fell into the back ranks of the mercs and remaining guardsmen, cutting down everyone who had did not raise a shield to defend themselves. Donovan’s own archers were demolished, their blood pooling out onto the marble floor. A waste of life to save this festering cesspool of a city, but he couldn’t feel too much pity. They wouldn’t be suffering anymore. He wouldn’t be either, soon enough.

“Raise your shields before they release another volley!” he tried to gain some kind of control over the situation, but the front ranks started to panic and push back against the lines of forces behind them. Another volley rose and fell, another grouping of soldiers taken out. Smaller this time, but still sooner than he wanted to lose them. 

It was then he felt the pull. The very air around the room shifted and became heavy, pressing down on them, as if the Maker Himself was smashing the sad lot under his fingertip. It took all Donovan had to hold his shield, but even that did not last. The oppressive atmosphere bared down on the sick, already defeated forces. Their bodies slammed against the ground, knocking the air from their lungs, leaving some crying in pain, and others numb to everything but their survival. 

“They have mages, Your Grace! We must leave!” Donovan heard Atrius yelling over the maelstrom of bodies thrown like dolls and flung to the floor. He forced himself to crane his neck, only to see the Tevinter ushering the Duke out of the great hall with all the swiftness of a flowing river. 

He should’ve known all the Duke’s speeches of falling with the city was bluster. Antoine was like all the others; all talk, but no courage when it came to standing up for those words. The Duke let the snake lead him out of the danger right in front of them, and Donovan spit the blood in his mouth on the floor. None of that mattered anymore. He needed to find the man he was set to kill, and he needed to do it fast.

“ _Don’t let them get away, Yemet!_ ” a voice bellowed out from the chaos, but there was no time to see the source. The magic that was holding the weary mercenaries down let the bulk of the elves fall on them ruthlessly, cutting the front ranks down before they had a chance to stand back up. It was a cheap tactic to win a battle. 

But the magic relented, and he stood up quickly, while others stumbled over themselves and scrambled to get out of the hall. It was foolish of them. The Dalish had bows and knew how to use them damn well better than anyone else in Thedas, and as a man Donovan had worked with for five years turned tail to run, he watched helplessly as an arrow struck into his back, and he fell to the marble floor. 

Donovan held up his shield to protect himself as he ran to get behind cover. A nearby pillar that held up the upper levels of the great hall was only a few strides away, and he pressed his back against the cold stone as he slipped behind it. By the Maker’s divine grace, he wasn’t immediately followed. There were too many other people running in all directions, and he wore nothing to distinguish himself from the rest. He wasn’t a priority, and he was immensely thankful for that. Donovan wasn’t ready to die. He still had a score to settle.

He leaned slowly around the pillar to get an idea of what was going on. An inconspicuous knife-ear in robes swung a staff around, and with it, a group of mercs that were attempted to route him went flying. His face was flushed and chest heaved heavily from his breathing. The fight to the Great Hall must’ve taken some toll on him. Hopefully the other mercs would keep him occupied until his mana was drained. Another elf barked orders to the shock troops barreling after the escaping mercs, banging on his shield with his sword. It made a loud clanging noise that filled the hall, and his savage soldiers answered its hollow rings with grunts and yells of understanding. 

_“Stop killing them! Incapacitate and move on! The Maiden will have my ass if I don’t bring Donovan back alive!”_

It was the same voice from earlier. It’s timbre was recognizable, and it resonated through the hall, the hollow walls lifting the acoustic quality into something akin to a song to Donovan. He knew the voice, though he did not know it. Its song melted into his mind and into his bones, filling him with purpose and duty, making his heart pound like a war drum. _Thump thump thump_ beating against his ribcage, making his whole body ache to end this. It would end him too, but like Kirkwall, this was too important to let go. Justice had to be served. Glover deserved that much. 

The source of the song surprised him though. The elf was younger than he anticipated --closer to his own age than some grizzled, old warrior-- and completely covered in blood. It was sticky on his face, on his armor, on the long blonde hair that was loosening out of the tie that held it back. Some of it was fresh, some dried and brown. It was obvious that the elf had been very hands on as he slaughtered the sick mercenaries today. It must’ve been like cutting down helpless cattle to him. Donovan should’ve expected that the man who had killed his father so maliciously wouldn’t mind getting his hands dirty. It still made his stomach turn. 

The elf drew his bow over and over, shooting arrows into the fleeing masses with speed that was sickening, crippling them by embedding the arrows in the back of their legs with pinpoint precision. Donovan centered himself and watched carefully, looking for some weakness he could exploit. He’d have to get the bow away from him somehow. It would be foolish of him to think he’d have any chance against him at a distance with a bow in that knife-ear’s hand. 

But the weakness began to show itself as the elf smiled with every arrow that hit its mark. A laugh when a shot of his took down a soldier before his comrade next to him could even fully draw his bow. A heavy drawl as he goaded his fellows on after it was clear the day would be won. Donovan recognized what he was all too easily.

Arrogant. 

Arrogant in the way of a man who had never lost at anything in his life and was rewarded for it, yet arrogant still. It would be much easier to exploit than any weakness the mage or the aging warlord had. But he had to do it quickly. Without the distraction of the fallen formation of the mercenaries, Donovan would just as soon be shot in the back before he could lift his sword against his father’s murderer. And he wasn’t going to let that happen.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of death in the air, and stepped back around the pillar. 

“If you want Donovan alive,” he cried out, pointing his sword tip squarely on the murderer, “Then come get me.”

The elves in the direct vicinity of him drew their bows, but Donovan didn’t drop his gaze. He stared into the eyes of his quarry, challenging him with every fiber of his being to meet the call. Unsurprisingly, the elf’s arrogance won out against his better judgment, and he motioned for his fellows to lower their weapons. He also slung his own bow over his back, and Donovan’s heart began to race. His plan was working. 

The elf walked towards him, pausing only for a second to pick up an abandoned shield on the ground. Though he fit his arm into the straps of the buckler, Donovan could tell he wasn’t used to fighting with one. Something about the way he held it; he probably practiced with shield training but got little use of it in the field. Another advantage he could use.

“Surprised you didn’t run with your tail tucked between your legs again like you did at Minanter!” the elf yelled to him over the battle happening all around them.

“Surprised you even showed your face without the Inquisition to back you,” Donovan responded in kind, pulling his shield close to his chest as the elf approached. 

“Big talk from the _‘Captain’_ that lost the city,” he all but sneered at Donovan. 

“I haven’t lost yet,” he answered him as they began to slowly circle around each other. The elf laughed at him, sharp teeth peeking out through his blood soaked grimace. He was a nightmare that settled just behind Donovan’s eyes when he closed them; the monster that ruined his life.

“Have you looked around you, shem? Nothing you’ve tried worked. None of your plans stopped us. You think you can still walk out of this a winner?”

His arrogance was almost too easy to use against him, but there was no time to fight the battle like chevaliers. There were no rules but for vengeance. Donovan lunged at him with all his might, thrusting his sword right towards the knife-ear’s vulnerable gut. The move caught him off guard, and he scrambled to raise his shield to deflect the blow in time. The elf saved his life in the first attack, but it knocked him off center. Far too easy.

Donovan nearly growled as he continued his blows. They hit the elf’s buckler every time, but he put more and more strength behind every hit, making the elf lose his stance and stagger. There was no time for him to recover, but Donovan also knew he couldn’t maintain this pace. He backed off for a few breaths, only to rally himself, before he restarted his assault. With each blow that hit, the knife-ear backed closer and closer to the far stone wall of the great hall. If only he could get him pressed up against it, he’d have him. 

But the elf was learning. Donovan had thought for sure his onslaught was working, putting the elf on guard, making him spend his energy on that shield that he held like a guard straight out of academy; but his eyes were too keen and his reflexes a bit too quick. The next blow didn’t hit, and Donovan nearly tripped at the evasion. He righted himself just in time, as the elf took the advantage and slammed into him with his shield. Another mistake rookies make, one he easily rooted by planting himself. He shoved the elf off him again, and they began their slow circle again, each one sizing the other up.

“Look around you, Donovan. All your shemlen forces are falling and it won’t be long before we find the Duke. Wycome is ours. Give up now so I don’t have to hurt you,” the elf taunted him. He wasn’t fazed. 

“Did you give my father the same option, knife-ear?” the question tumbled from his lips, spat like a curse at this murderer. He lunged his sword again with a grunt, and watched the elf as he evaded it, “Or did you just slice his neck for fun?”

The axe the elf carried came from his left out of nowhere, and he nearly got gutted there. He rose his forearm instinctively, and his shield stifled the blow. It still left him shaken as the elf swiped again, and Donovan had to hop backwards to save himself.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” the axe came down again, three quick swings in succession, each one hitting his shield. The last one was too close to the edge for his comfort,, “I’ve killed more shems than I can keep track of. If he was anything like you though, I promise you I gutted him like a _pig_.”

_“Now you be careful with this, Erick! Don’t wanna hurt any innocent folks!” His father handed him the wooden sword. Erick swung it slowly and smiled up at his dad._

He cried in anguish as he slammed his shield into the elf with all his might. The bastard planted himself and wouldn’t budge, but he’d make him move. By the Maker, Donovan. Would. Make. Him.

_“Take care of your mom while I’m gone, little man. Maybe I’ll bring you back a real sword if you do a good job,” Glover said with a wink. He hugged his leg, wishing his dad didn’t have to leave._

“YOU MURDERED HIM!” he shouted, his lungs aching with his hatred and pain, “MURDERED HIM!”

He tried to take the elf down with his shield again, nearly dislocating his shoulder as he landed blow after blow on him. The elf’s eyes went wide and he bent his knees to meet the incoming force, but the fucking murderer still wouldn’t fall. He wailed his frustration and flung his shield to the ground, gripping his blade with both hands instead.

_“I’m proud of you, little man. Being a Guardsman is something worth doing,” his father laid his hand on his shoulder and spoke with a sincerity that was unlike him, “You’re a better man than I could ever dream of being.”_

“YOU KILLED MY FATHER!” he ran at the elf, slamming his blade down on his shield, and grew angry with the elf still didn’t fall. Donovan started swinging wildly, yelling with his hard _clang_ as metal met metal, “YOU KILLED HIM!!”

“I didn’t--” the elf’s eyes were as big as saucers from the other side of the shield, finally afraid of what Donovan could do. It wasn’t enough.

“YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!” 

He swung.

“YOU RUINED MY LIFE!”

Another swing.

“YOU LEFT ME WITHOUT MY DAD!”

A swing deflected by the elf’s axe.

“I WAS ALONE!! I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”

Other elves began to surround them, ready to stop him. He kept swinging and the sweat poured from his face.

“I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO SAY GOODBYE!! YOU TOOK THAT FROM ME TOO!”

The sweat mixed with his tears and his last swing connected, knocking the shield into the elf’s face. He lost his balance too, and fell backwards to the ground. 

“A ROTTING HEAD ON A STICK WAS ALL YOU LEFT ME, YOU FILTHY FUCKING KNIFE-EAR!”

He rose his sword high over his head to bring it down before the other elves could shoot their bows at him. Donovan would finally finish this. Glover could finally rest in peace.

But the elf swung his leg and tripped Donovan, bringing his body down with a crash in one swift movement. The room spun when his head his the hard stone floor and he gasped for the air that wouldn’t come to his lungs. His sweat dripped into his eyes, and he cried harder, deep, longing sobs. He didn’t see the elf looming over him, but he felt the handle of his axe against his throat. He pressed it there, cutting off the little air he could get, and even when he tried to hold his eyes open, the room was still dark.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t…..couldn’t…..

\---

Revas’ watched as Donovan fell unconscious, his face turning bright red, then blue, and once he was sure that he wouldn’t wake up immediately, he pulled his weight off his axe and stood up and away from the man. 

Blood dripped down his face from a new gash across his nose where his shield hit him, but that wasn’t important. He stared at the unmoving body of the Maiden’s Prey, and though he wished otherwise, he was completely haunted by him. 

He knew who his father was. The man Donovan said he killed. It was close to nine years ago, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. The Dire Hunt, slavers let free into the forest for the best of the clan’s hunters to track down and kill, and whoever brought them back would be the Maiden’s new Banal’ras. He fought for it. Sabotaged other hunters, didn’t sleep for three days, beheaded the three slavers himself. He hadn’t felt a lick of remorse. One of them told him he had a kid he was supporting. And as he stared down on the unconscious face of his enemy, he saw the same eyes, the same chin, the same hair. Revas had left his father’s head rotting in a field, and dumped his body in a ditch. 

“You okay, Rev?” Twig asked from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged him off and turned away from the face from his past come to find him again.

“Fine,” he replied dully, “Get Arthwyn and Ina to restrain him. Then set up a guard watch. Elain wants him alive.”

“Sure think,” his friend confirmed his order, “But are you sure you’re alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did.”

He waved him off and walked back towards where Paeris and Threlen were gathering to survey the final leg of the battle; the last shock troops cutting down the last holdouts of mercs. Yemet was was approaching as well. Revas tried to focus on whether or not they grabbed the Duke instead of the face of the man he beheaded all those years ago.

“We found the Duke along with the other remaining nobles and elite merchants locked up in the palace suites,” Yemet answered the question before Revas even had to ask, “I’ve got the guild watching the entrance to their fancy room. But it looks like only a small portion of them. Don’t know if the rest are dead or escaped.”

“We can let The Maiden figure that out,” he said tiredly.

“Why wait? I can question them now,” Paeris interjected, “There’s no need to delay it any longer.”

“The Maiden called a Dire Hunt,” Threlen answered him gruffly, “We can’t interfere with her quarry.”

“The Maiden is hardly in a position to enforce any spiritual matters…”

Their voices became white noise as Revas turned his neck and looked at Arthwyn and Ina tying up Donovan across the hall. He knew what it was like to lose a father. Knew how it felt to struggle with understanding yourself after the foundation in which your soul was forged is yanked away. But at least he got to say goodbye. Revas dropped the oak branch on Heliwr’s corpse, said the departing words, and placed the first bowl of dirt over him. It had hurt, it made him feel like suffocating, and it made him fear failure and death, but at least he had that. There was no body for Donovan to bury.

“Rin!” Yemet interrupted his thoughts when he rose his voice, “What are you doing here?”

Revas turned his head back around to see the smuggler standing at the entrance of the Great Hall, her eyes taking in the entire scene. The bodies lain about, the blood staining the stone, the hunters crying and celebrating their victory. When she heard her name though, she ran up to the waiting group, and nearly looked worried.

“Oh thank Andraste’s supple ass I found you, Bonanza Ron!” she nearly shouted as she approached them. 

“What?” Revas looked around, confused, “Are you talking about me?”

“Of course I’m talking to you, Bandana Rose! Who else would it be?!” she said with exasperation. 

“I’m the _Banal’ras_. Get it right.”

“Who _cares_ what you are right now! You have to get to the alienage right away!”

“What’s going on?” Yemet cut in.

Elain was in the alienage and the forces they met here were diminished and sick. His gut churned at the realization, and he already knew this had been a distraction, a diversion. The Nacre Palace was just being defended. The Alienage was the target all along.

“Someone is attacking the alienage and blowing everything up! The Maiden sent me to ask for help,” Rin explained, “Now quit standing around gawking and get down there!”

He had been right.

Revas hated being right sometimes. 


	37. Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wycome's elves are under attack, and it's up to Elain to protect them against impossible odds.

The alienage was burning. 

Thick, black smoke filled the air and choked everyone in the courtyard, doing nearly as much damage as the mages’ magical attacks. However, the dark plumes that crept into every corner of that forsaken place obscured these mage’s sights, and for all their power and the ease in which they could overwhelm the elven forces, they did not want to kill their quarry. 

That was more disturbing to Elain than anything else in this situation. The screams of the elves been snatched and spirited away in the darkness, and the only indication of their kidnappers being there was a subtle glow of red that bobbed quickly through the suffocating cloud that devoured the alienage. It left her at a disadvantage. Her bow and arrows were of little use anymore, if they had ever been useful at all. The obstruction of sight was perfectly planned and executed, and all she could do was pull her gladius from its holster and cut down any that came too close to her. 

It wasn’t sustainable though. They would lose everyone if she didn’t do something. Elain couldn’t let that happen, after they’d already been through so much. 

“Keeper! Can you clear the air?” she shouted into the darkness, hoping with all her heart Deshanna was close enough to hear it. 

“I can try!” came the response, though her voice sounded weak. Elain followed the direction in which it came the best she could, slashing with her arms wildly to move the smoke as she passed. It stung her eyes and her lungs, making her cough in fits, and hindered her progress all the more. The city elves and her kin were being burned out like rats. These shemlen truly did not think of them as anything but animals. 

A rush of magic hit her suddenly, unlike Deshanna’s usually invigorating spells. It was a telekinetic force, concentrated from the Keeper’s center, meant to stun enemies that got to close to her. She recognized the magic from her training days, when Deshanna would work with Paeris in spell control by practicing on hunters and apprentices. Paeris’ mind blasts had always been tingly and even fun for her and her friends, but this was painful. Her legs locked and she nearly fell at the blast, but she was far enough away to recover herself. 

Luckily, it paid off, and the magic pushed the effects of the smoke away. Underneath, she saw paralyzed bodies of elves and humans alike on the ground; some of them were from Deshanna’s magical effects; the others did not move at all. The elves that could not be taken were killed, and the evidence of the gruesome tactics were displayed on their slaughtered bodies. Yet, there was no time to mourn. Every moment was of the essence.

“Sal! Can you hear me?” she shouted over the melee, praying he could, begging the Creators that he was still living and breathing, “We have to move!”

There were heartbeats of silence that followed, and Elain feared the worst. She couldn't wait for Sal to get the remaining forces to move. Whatever must be done must be done quickly.

Elain cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted.

"Fall back to Carnation Street! NOW!"

The wide eyes of both frightened elves and humans stared at her for a second, but quickly moved to follow her order. They were mostly weaponless, powerless, defenseless and ran knowing that, nearly falling over each other and Elain as they pushed past her. Deshanna cast barriers over them as they did, but as she could see the Keeper more clearly now, she could also see the exhaustion painting her face as she followed the non-combatants. The spells would not last long. 

_"Maiden!"_

Her anxiety was palpable when she heard Sal's voice over the terrified innocents crowding into the alleyway, and though her eyes still burned from the lingering smoke, she saw his unmistakable form come around the Vhenadahl, his crossbow in hand. He was worn and covered in soot and burns, but alive. 

"What are we doing?" he called to her as he pulled up the forces that were on the far northeast side of the alienage wall.

She turned and motioned for the hunters holding the high ground on the rooftops to follow her lead, then made her way towards the alley with Sal close on her heel, "We're moving down Carnation Street. They can't keep setting off these flare spells in such close quarters."

"They ain't here to kill us! Saw some kind of monster snatch two guild kids," he said as they disappeared into the darkness of the alley. Elain looked up to see her hunters jumping the gaps on the roofs with ease, "The thing was covered in that red lyrium!"

"I know!" she called over her shoulder, but felt her stomach drop when she happened to glance at something behind them giving chase. 

It was a monster, in a sense of the word. Created and used out of what once was recognizable, now all but shell of what it been. Skin and flesh burned and seared, now pale and ashy, streaked with deep scars and gashes, and the dark red rock jutting out of limbs like broken bones. Elain could hear the lyrium whispering as it ran after them, it's preternaturally swift feet hitting the wet ground. The words were soft and distant, so far away she could not make them out, but there was no doubt that they held no good will.

"Run!" she yelled, and when Sal noticed what was pursuing them, he grabbed onto her arm and dragged her along as quickly as he could. It was not as quick as it should have been though, as the exertion caused a sharp pain to shoot up her abdomen. Too much weight from the baby straining on her, but pain was endurable. The heat of the red and the death that the whispers promised would not be.

They caught up to the rest of the forces, both hunters and guild members on the ground who held up their bows and crossbows, aiming to take down the thrall. Sal pulled her roughly into a small corridor and out of the way, and she panted and fought to catch her breath as she watched the arrows and bolts stop the lost soul who intended to hurt them. The lyrium that made up this person’s limbs broke in pieces as it collapsed on the ground, and when she peered down to get a better look, there was no doubt in her mind any longer.

Whatever evil was afoot in Wycome had resulted in this corruption being planted and sowed in its very own people.

"Da'len! Are you alright?" Deshanna cried out to her, running from behind the wall of defenders in the crowded alley. 

She nodded her head, "I'm fine. But we--"

A blast shook the walls of the buildings flanking either side of the street. The mages had not given up their bombardment, despite the fact that collapsing buildings would bury them all. The smoke began to rise again, and the glowing light of mages staves and the dull ember of their red lyrium infestedthralls shone through, an ominous threat at the end of the street that they could see. Elain groaned at the development, angry that these adversaries cared so little about collateral damage and innocents, but righted herself immediately. This was no time for self-pity. Now was the time for action.

"Everyone without a weapon move into the buildings! Barricade the doors and windows with whatever furniture you find inside!"

The mass near the back of the mish mash of people moved like a school of fish, swarming in unison into the safety of the shelters, slamming doors behind them in their fear and panic. Some humans stood outside still though, the complacent merchants among them. 

"The rest of you can fight?" she questioned them loudly, a commander prepping her troops.

"Aye!" a chorus of affirmations rose above the booming of magical flares rising up again. 

"Good! Then you will defend these people with everything you have! If you do not, I will cut your hair and burn your armor myself!"

She pulled her bow from off her back and grabbed an arrow from the quiver at her waist. The feathers brushed against her fingers as she drew her weapon, familiar and comforting, and she joined with the front ranks. Elain set her sights on a mage spinning a staff in his hands, conjuring magic to destroy them. 

_"Ready!"_

The drawstring was taught, and sweat dripped down her chin.

_"Aim!"_

The spell was growing brighter, making her target easier to hit.

"RELEASE!"

The arrow left her bow and flew along with the army of others, and she watched with pride as the unprotected mage fell when her projectile struck him. Many others bounced wildly off walls and off the barriers cast, but hubris had earned them some kills. This would not be a fight they'd win long range though. They would live or die facing their enemy up close. 

"Reload!" she had shouted, but she knew getting off another volley would be near impossible. They were closing in too fast, and there was too little room to maneuver. Still, she shot her arrows diligently, hoping it would earn them something. Perhaps a heartbeat that would otherwise kill someone, or perhaps nothing at all. As the heat of the red lyrium thralls began to emanate and engulf the alley, she knew there would be no time muse over what good a few arrows had done.

Elain drew her gladius from the holster on her waist swiftly and fell back as the half dozen shield bearers that had been left behind moved up to the front ranks. There was not even enough of them to create an efficient wall, but they'd have to work with it. 

"Shit...shit," Sal murmured to himself next to her, his nerves exposed and raw. 

"Don't think about it. Just fight," she said to him with enough conviction to make him furrow his brow and center himself. He raised his crossbow, and aimed it between the shoulders of the shield bearers. They could see the faces of their enemy now, just as dark and corrupt as the city itself.

But when they fell on the front ranks, all hell broke loose.

The wall fell apart quickly, though not for the monumental effort she and the unshielded hunters put forth. Her gladius slashed and maimed two of the thralls before the wall collapsed, and she continued to fight for her life and the lives of those she swore to save. It was her duty, her reason for being. To serve the goddess, to protect her people, to cut down the interlopers that would interfere with their right to existence. 

And she did so without mercy, without prejudice. All who attacked her felt the cut of her blade, and though the effort hurt and exhausted her, she would not give up. Never again would they submit.

"Push back Lavellan! They will not take more innocents in their madness!"

But their adversaries fought ferociously, and the mages cast spells to weaken the forces. The sap of entropy, the burn of flame, the bite of leeching energy that seemed to suck the very life out of them. The gladius became heavy, heavier, even heavier in her hands, and every frustrated swing did not make its mark. The forces still fought, but Elain was slowly losing her battle along with the front ranks. Chaos was taking over, and formation fell apart as the once citizens of the city --augmented now with red lyrium-- pressed down on them . 

Shortly after the wall broke, so did any semblance of control Elain had over the situation. Despite their actions earlier, these foreign forces no longer took any prisoners. Throats of hunters Elain had trained with, worked with, fought with for years were slit, and she could nearly taste their blood on her lips. But it wasn’t only them. The unarmored, roughspun tunics of the guild members became soaked in blood as well, along with the finer linen covered bodies of the human merchants. These mages and their foot soldiers did not discriminate. Kill whatever had a weapon, and collect the unarmed and defenseless once that was done.

"We have to fall back!" Sal yelled over the chaos as he swung and his fist connected to the ashy jaw of one of the people embedded with the lyrium, "They're overwhelmin' us Maiden!"

"MOVE INTO THE BUILDINGS!" she shouted, and the hunters and guild members scrambled over each other to listen. They were all too eager to escape the ruthless slaughter playing out before them. 

The forces scattered, some running down corridors, others slipping into the abandoned homes and businesses that lined Carnation Street. Elain found herself carried along with them as she escaped the burning and maelstrom of the enemy, swept in a crowd of panicking elves and humans alike. She looked for Sal, hoping to stay close to him so they could rally their forces again, but he too was swept away. 

Where Sal had disappeared, Deshanna kept close, the constant casting of barriers and rejuvenating spells wearing her down to the bone. Her face was ghastly pale next to Elain's and her hair was wet with sweat and ashes and curled against her forehead. Elain reached out and grabbed her hand as the forces stampeded through that dark street, and Deshanna squeezed her tightly. 

The forces started to thin, and Elain pulled Deshanna into a large, wooden building on her left to hold out. It was dry rotted and in shambles, and once inside, she saw it had little else but broken boxes and crates. However, to her surprise, huddled behind the seemingly worthless trash, she was able to make out the unmistakable flash of light hitting elves' eyes. Non-combatants hiding from the battle, and here she was, bringing the battle to them. Her gut wrenched at the sight of their fear, but there was no time. No time. She slammed the door shut and nearly cried when she saw there was no lock, no bar to hold the mages and their shock troops back. 

"Get me something to put against the door!" she ordered the Keeper as she put all her weight against the rotted wood, desperately trying to hold back whoever might think to follow them, "And some of you get over here and help me!"

Though Deshanna went to grab the broken pallets and crates to try to form a barricade, there were only cries and screams from the others. These weren't the refugees Clan Lavellan brought with them or unarmed guild members. They weren’t the ones who she had ordered to hide. These were battle-shocked natives to the city who didn't leave with Sal, didn't fight with Yemet and the Thieves' Guild. Their eyes were hollow and their faces sunken from malnourishment. They had all been hiding from the horrific things that had happened here all along. 

Elain knew she couldn't ask them to fight with her. They had already seen too much, endured too much, but she would not let them suffer anymore. Not while she still breathed. 

Her vow still stood when she felt someone pushing back against the door behind her. She shoved her shoulder into the door, trying so desperately to stop them from coming in, and Deshanna ran to her aid. The two fought against the intruders, holding the entrance in hopes that they would give up and move on. But the force they exerted was strong. Their best efforts weren't enough, and Elain felt her feet slipping underneath her as they moved her along with the door. 

With one last shove, they broke through, sending both Elain and Deshanna staggering back, but the Keeper had barriers up and on them immediately. They'd have to fight whoever made their way in, and they'd have to win. Elain drew her bow once again, and tightened her fingers around the grip as she saw her opponent on the other side of the open door. 

There were three of them. All three tainted by the red lyrium. One was tall, but artificially so; his legs long and spindly, as if they had been stretched apart to breaking then sewn back together, his eyes glowing, his arms full of the corrupted crystal, his mouth dripping with blackness. The other two were less deformed, less taken by the corruption, but still formidable. Elain set her sights on the one furthest under the lyrium's influence, and when he met her eyes, she ran. 

She ran away from where the traumatized elves hid, to the opposite side of the dilapidated building, praying the large one would give chase. By the sounds of the clink of crystal against the old stone floor, she knew he had. 

"Stop fleeing, my lady!" he screeched at her, his voice cracked and corrupted, like him, "I want to take you alive! What a pretty garden you'll make for the Elder One!"

His voice sent a shudder up her spine, but she swallowed her fear and strengthened her resolve. Without looking back or slowing down, she drew her arrow from her quiver rapidly, lined up the nock in her bowstring, and pulled it taut before she turned abruptly. She caught the monster by surprise, and his eyes grew wide; wide and liquid like a lake at night, reflecting the light of the moon off its dark depths. He had been an elf once. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and let her arrow fly.

He was an elf no more.

The piecemeal corruption that was once of her kind fell when her shot hit his neck, blood still red with life spilling across the stone floor. Blood as red as what she would bleed flowing from his mouth and ears as pointed as hers.

The pieces fell into place and Elain knew why they were taking the elves alive. The lyrium was grown in them, making them stronger, faster, and utterly lost. Some cruel experiment, some sick game that turned them into the thralls she now fought and killed. She wanted to weep at the realization, but there was still a battle to be won. Processing this all now would only slow her down. She had to hold out. She could not fall. Not yet.

Elain looked up to Deshanna and saw her engaged with one of the other troops that had entered the building, and the partner to him lying on the ground. The Keeper must have dispatched him already, and she sighed in relief. It was nothing to load her bow and take aim on Deshanna's opponent. Less than nothing to let the arrow fly and watch it embed itself in his back. He fell as well, and Deshanna shut the door again before anyone else could enter, then pressed her back against it as she slipped to the floor, crying. 

She stepped over the fallen body of her kill and moved quickly towards the door, resuming her position of guardian, pressing her shoulder into the wood and she listened to the fighting outside. There were screams and battle cries, calls for aid and joyless laughs as foes fell, though she did not know which side the laughs originated from. All she knew is that they needed to hold out, needed to protect the people quietly sobbing and backed into the corner of the large, empty building. They had done nothing to deserve this.

“I killed him, I killed him,” Deshanna continued her weeping, now interspersed with words of regret, “He’s dead.”

“You did what you had to in order to survive. Don’t think on it now,” she replied to her. The Keeper had never seen battle, never faced Death. It was shameful almost, since their clan was so devoted to the Lady of the Hunt, but not everyone had the stomach for it. She pitied Deshanna for it, but also herself in a way. Elain wished she could still feel remorse like that.

Their brief respite was interrupted with another hard push on the door, and Deshanna yelped in fear when she felt it. Elain nearly cried herself. She was exhausted, and feeling intense pains in her abdomen, clenching and clamping down. She feared what it meant for her... and what it meant for the child. Despite her apprehensions and the resentment at the burden it represented to her, she still did not want to lose it. She had carried it this far...it would be a shame to see its life ended so soon because of her choices.

_Stay still, my da’assan_ , she begged it in her mind as she once again pushed all her weight against the door, _stay where it’s safe_.

Her strength was no match for the forces on the other side of the door. The smoke and light from outside peeked in with each push they made against it, and she felt her feet slipping again as she struggled to hold. Deshanna was of no use to her, and she couldn’t hold her current position. She would have to face whatever was on the other side and hope she was faster with her weapons than they were with theirs. 

“Get up Keeper!” she ordered Deshanna, who looked up at her with dead eyes and a tear-stained face, “Go provide support to the ones hiding in the corners. I’ll take down whoever walks through this door!”

“But Elain…”

“Now!” she commanded as the most forceful shove on the door yet came. The Keeper scrambled off the ground and stumbled into a run towards the cowering elves. She gave them words of comfort and assurance, but they were as empty as the bodies of the former elves lying on the ground. If Elain didn’t hold the door, they would all be lost.

With the last shove, she glanced out of the gap between the door and the wall and saw two of the lyrium-addled forces fighting against her. She was nearly relieved. Two was manageable, two was killable. Any more, and she knew her luck would run out. They backed away to wind up another push on the door, and she took the chance to move and position herself. She backed away from the entrance, side-stepping around the bodies from earlier, and settling herself far enough away to shoot her bow. Elain loaded it quickly and had it ready for when they burst through.

They did so shortly, with all the rage and adrenaline of warriors in war, nearly falling over when they found nothing barricading the door anymore. She took the opportunity while she had it. An arrow in the one in front, and a loud cry confirming that it hit. There was no time to see if it had killed, however, as the one behind him barrelled forward over his fallen comrade. She drew her gladius swiftly, readying herself. 

He came at her with a large shield, making her job more difficult. His strength would win out, so she needed to dance around him until she saw an opening. The thrall was impatient though, and his shortsword hit hers with a loud _clang_ , steel on steel colliding and reverberating down her arm. Her opponent grunted, and lifted his shield when she tried to strike again, deflecting her and making her tired. There was no choice but to hold her grip with both hands now, and she adjusted herself quickly when he brought his sword down again to cut her down. She moved to the side rapidly, praying that her footwork and agility was enough to get her through this, and by the grace of the gods, it seemed to work. He missed her entirely and was left off balance, falling forward only slightly, but just enough for her to slash at his exposed back with all the might she could muster. 

The man fell, like the ones before, and she dropped her gladius to the ground and she fought to catch her breath. The pains came quickly now, perhaps sped up by her stress, and it took all that she had not to double over in pain. All she could do was close her eyes and clench her teeth, groaning through it as it rocked her body. 

“He’s not dead!” 

She opened her eyes to look and see the lyrium corrupted body still in front of her, still not moving. Of course he was dead. Of course. But the movement out of the corner of her eye alerted her to the other one --the one who took her arrow-- charging towards her. She tried to move out of the way, but was not quick enough this time, and his weapon caught her on her side, slicing into her ribcage. 

Elain fell to the ground, clutching at her wound, panicking at the sting of the cut and the amount of blood coming out. It almost did not register to her that the opponent would try to kill her; she was too focused on the pain. But when it did, it was far too late. The sword that cut her was already moving to come back down, and in a last, desperate move of preservation, she leaned forward over her stomach, making herself as small and condensed as possible, hoping it would save her. Or at least, save the child.

The clarity she felt now was strange, as if her mind had been cleared of all lingering thoughts, all doubts, all transgressions. Time slowed as well, and all the came to her now were statements of truth. _This is how I die. That sword will kill me_. All she could hope was that it spared the baby. Let it live, even if she didn't. 

She waited for her death in that twilight time; the time between heartbeats, when all illusions had passed. But the death did not come. The sword nearly reached her, but in a final hour of answered prayers and renewed hope, another body slammed into her would-be killer, knocking him into the ground and sending his sword flying. 

Her savior was familiar, and her heart swelled as never before when she recognized his armor. It was bloodied and dark from his own fight, but she could never mistake the curve of his jaw or the tight muscles of his neck. Both were tense from a grimace he held on his face as his axe brutally finished the lost soul who had tried to end her, exerting his method of overkill that he only used when desperate or angry. Part of her wanted to feel pity for the thrall caught under his axe, but there was no real reason to. One of them had to die. She didn’t want it to be her.

"Elain!" 

He finished his work and turned to her, and she held out her arms pleadingly. 

"Revas," her voice quivered as she said his name. 

He helped her up immediately, taking her carefully in his arms, steadying her, looking her over before cupping her face in his hands and showering her in kisses. She responded in kind, unable to stop herself from laying her gratitude and love on the man whose devotion had saved her and their child. 

"I was so scared...gods, I was so scared," he whispered his fears into her and she covered them in kisses as well, convincing them both that she was alive. He was alive. They were alive. 

Their tenderness was short-lived when another sharp pain shot through her, and she groaned as it rode down her sides. Revas looked her over again as she winced, finding the wound on her ribs. 

"Shit," he examined it through her ripped garment, "Shit. Shit."

"I'll be fine," she promised him as she looked down on it as well, "It's not too deep."

A loud crack of lightning sounded from outside of the building, lighting up the alleyway and making the elves huddled with Deshanna cry in fear. There was still a battle going on out there, still lives to be protected. Lives to be saved. Hers was only the first. She needed to focus.

Elain picked up her gladius off the ground and turned to face the Keeper, "Stay here and don't move. We'll defend from Carnation Street along with the rest of the hunters and the Diceni."

Deshanna nodded her head, her eyes still full of fear and her hands still shaking from her first kill, but she would perform her duty. Revas, however, was not so easily convinced. He grabbed onto Elain's arm tightly and turned her back around to face him.

"You're staying here with her," he attempted to order her, "Carnation Street is overrun. It's too dangerous."

She yanked her arm out of his hand and made her way outside without acknowledging his angry curses behind her. Deshanna would perform her duty, and Elain must perform hers as well. Even with a child, she could not stop being the Maiden, and the hunters needed her. 

But Revas had not lied. The street _was_ overrun. Diceni and Lavellan crowded into the narrow space, their weapons clanging against foes, their yells rising over each other, but thankfully, their position in tact. This she could work with. This is how they would win. She quickly surveyed the layout of the situation and formulated a plan. The Diceni had a few shield bearers, enough to form a small wall. Lavellan was mostly bowmen and some axemen, but little to no pike wielders to push back the enemy forces. The plan coalesced inside her head, and she opened her mouth to give her orders.

The choice of how to proceed was taken from her hands when an invisible force sent the remaining lyrium addled thralls flying. It was well timed, well controlled, with a precision that was unmistakeable. She craned her head around to see the source of the magic she already knew, and froze in place when her suspicions were confirmed. 

Her brother had arrived. 

She reached behind her and grabbed onto the collar of Revas’ armor, pulling him down to her level, and whispered angrily, "Why didn't you tell me he was here?!"

"You didn't give me any time!"

"You should've made time!" she reprimanded him before letting his collar drop. 

It wasn’t his fault, she knew, but she had not expected him. Not yet. Paeris was a phantom far, far away that was supposed to stay there while she won this fight and gathered her glory. Instead, he was participating actively, building his own renown, taking the choices from her. She would not allow it. Despite Paeris' presence, it was still within her power to turn the tide of this fight, and it was exactly what she would do. She lifted her gladius and pointed it towards the mages' thralls that hurried to reassert themselves after being forcibly pushed back.

"SHOULDER TO SHOULDER! Do not let them regroup!"

She gave the command and the hunters obeyed without question, lining their bodies up and creating a compact barrier that would stop the thralls from advancing again. Elain pushed Revas on the shoulder and he took his hint to join the front ranks. She fell back, maneuvering herself to the farthest line from the fight, nearly on top of her brother. 

"STAY IN FORMATION! DEFEND THIS STREET AT ALL COSTS!”

The hunters kept formation as the thralls fell on them again, but this time, they held position. There were no scattering of troops, no being chased off into separate directions. Thrall after thrall fell to their weapons, felt the taste of their shields against their ashen faces, and their bodies piled at the feet of Lavellan. The day was not lost yet, and the Dalish made sure that these enemies of Wycome and its people knew it. 

“The mages are advancing,” Paeris finally spoke to her after she took over the operation, choosing to comment on the status of the battle rather than any stilted greetings. He pointed to the robed figures behind the last few thralls that turned their sights on the warband, “Get me to the front and I can purge their mana!”

She nodded her affirmation and cupped her hands over her mouth, “MAKE WAY FOR THE KEEPER!” 

Her brother pushed to the front ranks where Revas fought tooth and nail to hold, and with a swift gesture of his hands, he called down a spire of magic that Elain could only describe as a smoky light. It filled the alley briefly, then dissipated in the air, leaving the scent of petrichor and the taste of metal in her mouth. When the air was clear again, she saw that it had weakened the mages, but did not stop them from casting spells, however minimal. A cone of ice could still do damage, and they took advantage of that. 

Revas and the hunters still held their ground, and Paeris moved to the side to regenerate his own mana to try again. They would simply have to continue breaking away at them, bit by bit, until the Dalish were the last ones standing. Attrition wasn’t ideal, but it was better than death. 

However, there were times when battles surprised Elain.When people surprised Elain. She should always expect it, should refrain from thinking she has everything figured out, but she had learned long ago that it was part of her nature to resign herself to seeing only one solution to every problem, even if the truth was less than clear. After seeing the scene that played out since their fateful arrival to this blighted city, she imagined that perhaps it was time to let that go. 

Because in that moment, every standing enemy mage fighting her hunters fell dead. 

Their bodies went slack and collapsed with little fanfare. As they littered the ground with their insidious forms, it opened up the view down the alley, allowing her to see the source of their swift deaths. On the farther end of the street, close to courtyard that led to the Vhenadahl, Sal stood, his crossbow drawn, along with Yemet and the rest of the Thieves Guild. Their formation reflected the Dalish; shoulder to shoulder, impenetrable, steadfast.

“Stand aside, please,” she requested of her hunters, and they did as she asked as she made her way to the front ranks. They were eerily quiet, just as shocked at the turn of events as she was. 

Paeris strode up next to her as she found her way to the fallen mages, leaning over with her as she examined the bodies. They were full of crossbow bolts, all fired with expert precision, not a one misfired. The Thieves Guild’s aim had been true, and the day was saved in a instant. It was hard to believe. Her heart still raced from the fight, the come down always so difficult, but they had won. They had _won_.

Elain laughed. She laughed loud and long at the victory, forgetting the blood and the fear and the death, and instead, she allowed the joy of an end arriving fill her. The pain subsided, the wound still spilling her blood was a ghost of a time of weakness, and now there was nothing but joy. The hunters threw their hands up in the air in celebration, shouting their own joy, as they ran to greet and congratulate the Guild. The Guild did the same, and the two groups met in the center of Carnation Street as if they had always known one another. They were no longer strangers, but partners, brothers in battle. 

Revas grabbed Yemet and slapped him on the back, while other hunters did the same for their new friends. Sal exchanged hugs and wore a wide smile on his face, though it had been blackened by smoke and ash, but when he came to Elain, it seemed a hug was insufficient. 

Instead, he bowed his head low, then lifted it slowly, tears filling his eyes and threatening to spill out. Elain could not stop hers, so relieved she was with the battle won, and pulled the old bartender into a hug anyways. He rubbed her back comfortingly, as if they were more than just vestigial echoes of what they once were, and in that moment, she believe they were. Or at least, they could be. No more barriers to separate them, no more walls erected to keep the purity of her people isolated. They were the ones that fought by her side and the ones she had fought so hard to protect. This brave, diverse, wholly impressive group of elves _were_ her people. Her kin.

And seeing them alive and triumphant felt like coming home.

“Thank you, Maiden,” Sal whispered to her as they embraced, fully engulfed in the victory they had earned together. 

“No,” she whispered back, nearly unable to say the words as her emotions overwhelmed her.

“ _Thank you_.”

 


	38. Path

Llyn had always been intimidated by the Council back home. Lavellan was a contentious clan, always a hair’s breadth away from some sort of argument, and its Council members’ tempers were shorter than a winter’s day. He felt the volatile environment was a side effect of the Keeper’s refusal to make hard decisions, always waffling and hemming and hawing over the best choice. Deshanna diverted to the Maidens more often than not, since both Elain and Old Bida were decisive in their actions, but they were not the only foreboding presences on the Council. 

Twig’s parents, Kellen and Aricia, were both combative and steadfast in their morals. Sohta was willing to use her fists to win arguments as often as she used her words. Vhannas was a cold reminder of the potency of words, since he spoke very little, but when he did, everyone listened. Even Warlord Den put on a face of indifference when sitting in Council, a far cry from the man the hunters knew. They were all turned into prowling predators when the day had ended and the hearth had been stoked high in preparation to make decisions on behalf of the clan. The shadows they cast were as sharp as teeth, and they always left Llyn feeling uneasy. Like a morsel of fresh meat waiting to be devoured.

He had never asked to sit on Council. He didn’t want it. Den and Revas thought that seating the head Ethinan there would help Elain win back the hunters after her pregnancy. Llyn had no say in the matter, of course. He never had a say. Not when he got uplifted to the Council, and not four years ago when Elain railroaded him into taking over the Ethinan when Galeris retired. He hadn’t wanted that either, but he also wasn’t an idiot, despite what the Maiden thought. Elain was cleaning house, propping up her friends as the older generation of dissenters began retiring, digging her claws in the clan’s working structure so she could get an upper hand against everyone on the Council. If he refused to accept the position, she’d have him moved to some Orlesian clan to prevent opposition. Llyn didn’t want to leave the only home he’d ever known, so he begrudgingly accepted his lot, over and over again it seemed. 

Lavellan’s Council and it’s insidious workings should’ve prepared him for sitting before the Triumvirate. Should have. But it didn’t.

Where Lavellan was full of arguments and debates, harsh words and hot tempers, the Triumvirate of Abersher’al was as cold as the desert night. Instead of a dozen high ranking clan supervisors, there were only three. They would sit as still as statues, and a large hearth separated them and their small dias from the gathered clan members that ambled about opposite of them in the expansive open-aired pavilion. The gauzy linen that was hoisted up by cedar poles blew on the night breeze, mimicking the hearth’s flames and dancing against the black night. This was a far away from the warm, crowded Council yurt of home. Instead, Llyn felt like he was sitting as a supplicant in a temple of the Old Empire.

“Hey. You’re lookin’ pretty nervous, buddy,” Sellarin whispered next to him as they stood waiting for the Triumvirate to begin the meeting, “You gonna make it?”

His leg was still sore and throbbed, and his head was hazy from the healing elixirs he had been given. They were much stronger than anything the healers Lavellan could make. He could barely remember anything from the past two days but fevered dreams that left him feeling painfully empty. 

“I’m fine,” he replied to his charge, though he didn’t feel like responding to her at all. He still hadn’t forgiven her for leaving him to the lurker. 

“Well, you look like as pale as an albino nug. What’s on your mind?”

She was attempting to draw him out, try to get him feeling comfortable, make him trust her. No matter what everyone else thought, he wasn’t dumb. He knew when he was being fluffed.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m going to be questioned by the Council of the most powerful clan in Nevarra? Arguably one of the most powerful in all of Thedas? Could it possibly be me being anxious over that?” 

“Eh, you’re looking at it all wrong,” she brushed off his concerns with a shrug of her shoulders, “The Triumvirate? Yeah, sure they’re powerful. Sure they have a lot of say in what’s going on with the clans. But get past all that mental stuff, they’re just elves, like you and me. The power is just an outfit they wear; underneath, they’re as naked as the rest of us.”

“Of course you’d say that. And the next thing you’ll tell me is to just imagine them naked when I talk to them, and it’ll be so much easier.”

“Creators no!” she couldn’t stop her laughter, but quieted herself quickly when some discerning eyes of the clan fell on her, “Look, that’s only going to make you more nervous. Just leave it up to me. I’m used to talking.”

“More like used to running your mouth,” he muttered under his breath, but before a rebuttal could swim to Sellarin’s lips, the tingling music of sistrum filled the air. Instead of the scrap metal used in the percussive instruments that Lavellan used, Llyn noticed that Abersher’al used an elegantly designed “u” shaped head, carved from ivory, and tiny copper discs floating on a wire strung between each side of the head. The young women of the clan shook them vigorously, and the rest of the clan went silent as they waited for the noise to abate. 

When it finally did, the three ruling members of the clan walked to their seats on the raised dais, then sat on the embroidered cushions and fur blankets there. The Blood of the Embers sat to the right. Remada, the Hearth Matron, to the left. And in the center, the aging, yet undeniably intimidating Keeper Gherlanna. Her skin was as thin as parchment, her lips a stern line drawn across her face, and her eyes, though rheumy from age, still looked as sharp as a hawk’s. This Keeper was one every clan knew not to cross, and even Elain had prostrated herself before Gherlanna to earn her approval. Llyn felt his stomach sink into the ground, as if it were an animal trying to hide by burrowing into the warm sands. There was no way they’d ever be able to convince this woman.

“Blessings upon the Clan as we weather another season. Blessings upon the hunters as they fight for us to remain free. Blessings upon the Triumvirate as we follow the Vir Atish’an. Blessings upon the People as they remember the Oath of the Dales,” the Keeper opened up the Council meeting with a wave of her hand and a chant-like speech. Gherlanna seemed to weave spells into the very words, the kind that kept the rest of the gathering at rapt attention and utterly silent.

“The agenda tonight is threefold: status updates on the clan’s stores as this spring season closes out, logistical planning of the move to the Silent Plains in the next few weeks, and a dedication rite for the newest births in our herd,” the Keeper spoke with utter authority, confirmed and earned through years of service, but it sounded as natural to her as breathing. She didn’t just hold her leadership firmly, she embodied it.

“Sylaise’s Holy Week also approaches, but we will withhold discussion on preparations until our next Council,” the elder Keeper continued on, “Now, the Triumvirate will see to petitioners. May the first step forward.”

The first was a bent over man who made his way to the dias, crossing behind the great hearth that separated the clan itself with the Triumvirate, and sat on the ground before them. Their conversation was quiet now, and the member of Abersher’al chatted to themselves as they waited for the matters affecting them all. Llyn picked at his nails nervously, knowing that he and Sellarin would have to sit before these pillars of power soon enough. 

“You’re so in your head about it, you know,” Sel began whispering to him again as they waited their turn, “Too much thinking, not enough acting on your gut. If you could just turn off your brain for a minute…”

“Well I can’t!” he shot back hotly, “I mean, don’t you think I’ve tried? Do you think I want to be like this? Always worried over something, always on edge, always wondering how I’m going to face another day of being used and walked all over? Creators, I’ve tried! I’ve tried it all. It just doesn’t stop. It never stops.”

He felt tired just saying it, but the words had come spilling out anyways. Llyn knew who he was and what he was capable of, and it was always a source of constant self-hatred that he couldn’t control the tension that always seemed to settle just over his bones. He had been called weak by so many hunters back home, and undisciplined by so many more. There was no way he’d let some spy get away with the same thing.

But she didn’t seem to want to push the matter like so many had before her. Sellarin looked at him blankly for just a heartbeat, as if she was processing what she was hearing, turned her head away and stared into the great hearth fire that crackled loudly in the middle of the pavilion.

“Sorry. I didn’t know,” she said at last, quietly, “Problem with this career is you have to make a lot of flash judgments and assumptions based on what you see. Sometimes you don’t get the whole story though. So here I am with my foot in my mouth because I thought I had you pegged, when I should’ve been looking for more underneath.”

He cast his head downward, glancing at the sand under his feet, suddenly embarrassed, “You’re not wrong. It’s my head that’s the problem, and it’s what has held me back from being the leader Elain and Den wanted me to be. I just...can’t stop it, even when I tried.”

“No shame in that, buddy. We can’t all be Maidens and Warlords and Triumvirates. Someone has to do the over-thinking. How else are we going to see the stuff that all those big guys in charge overlooked?”

Llyn let out a deep sigh, “Look. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but this has been nothing but a burden on me for as long as I can remember, so can we just drop it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “Sure thing.”

A slightly awkward silence fell over the pair as the sun set completely over the horizon and time slipped away. Petitioner after petitioner went before the Triumvirate, making requests and pleas based on their personal needs and needs of each faction within the clan. The three seemed to be able to come to solutions quickly, and moved a dozen petitioners along within a short amount of time. With each that joined their fellows among those standing and waiting for the Triumvirate to address the crowd, Llyn felt his stomach clench tighter and tighter. 

The clenching was nearly painful when they were finally called. His palms began to drip sweat, along with his forehead, but it was cold. As he and Sellarin walked around the giant hearth, his legs began to tremble too. He wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else in the world. Even the bottom of Waking Sea. Any place that would get him away from here.

But he wasn’t anywhere else. They walked up to the dias and sat down in their designated spot, the Triumvirate above them, able to stare down on them and make their judgments. Llyn had to fight to not stare at the ground and instead, hold eye contact. If only it were as easy as Sellarin made it look.

“Andaran atishan, lethallin. Welcome to Clan Abersher’al,” Keeper Gherlanna spoke to them, and the copper diadem on her brow reflected the fire, making it shine like magic, “I hope your stay has been comfortable.”

“Almost lavishly comfortable, hahren,” Sellarin responded, pouring on the compliments right out fo the gate, “I’ve been a guest to several clans, but none have given me perfumed robes and oil baths!”

Gherlanna smiled at the spy tightly, “We do aim to please. The desert is harsh and unforgiving, and Abersher’al finds itself a peaceful oasis among it. Our water is your water. Our comforts are your comforts.”

“You humble us, hahren,” Llyn spoke up, though his voice trembled slightly. It would be rude not to answer her generosity. 

“We will see about that,” she said shrewdly, narrowing her eyes at the pair, “My dear niece tells me you’ve come with a petition from the Maiden of the Hunt. She believes it a genuine request, but my Ellya has always been soft-hearted when it came to her friends. So tell me the truth, Diceni spies, why are you really here?"

Llyn fought an internal battle to keep his face still, a mask that couldn't be penetrated or judged, but waited anxiously for Sellarin to put this terrifying woman's thoughts at ease. The Keepers fingers tapped the weathered staff that sat across her lap impatiently, waiting for that same answer he did. 

"Most venerable Hahren," Sellarin addressed her gravely, none of the underlying playfulness and levity that usually colored her voice present, "The missive from the Maiden is the truth. Grave injustices have been done to my fellow hunters at the hands of the Keeper of the Diceni, and we only want to obey the Will of Andruil through Her. There is no ulterior motive, except for the deep concern I have for my friends who suffer now."

The Keeper narrowed her eyes at the spy, and her frown denied Llyn a sense of relief he'd hope Sellarin could bring.

"What have you heard from the steppes, Remada?" She addressed the Hearth Matron; a woman only slightly younger than Hearth Matron Aricia, with gentle brown eyes that reminded him of his mother. Remada stared at them with those eyes, full of pity, full of concern, and chewed on her lip before answering.

"Keeper Paeris continues to push for stronger trade lines between our clans, Hahren. He has become rather bold lately, though still follows the boundaries of our hunting grounds faithfully," she explained softly, her voice as gentle as her eyes, "But that doesn't mean he isn't planning something more forceful. Still, there's no reason to believe that the Maiden would want to interfere with how the Diceni Council deals with its dissenters."

"The Council was not aware of their fate, Hahren," Sellarin broke in, "Keeper Paeris has gone behind their backs to do all of this. Even Warlord Threlen is unaware."

"Then let Threlen handle this," Gherlanna brushed the spy off with a wave of her wizened hand.

"He...he won't want to once Lavellan comes into Diceni's fray," Llyn spoke up again when he saw that Sellarin's method of willainizing Paeris was lost on the Keeper of Abersher'al. What did she care for the actions of someone who was no threat to her, "And that's why the Maiden needs your help to right this."

"The Maiden wants my help because she shirked her duty to warm her bed, and now stands to lose it all for her lack of discipline," the reply was sharp as a knife, cutting deeply.

"That's part of it," he admitted, thinking quickly while pulling his hands behind his back to hide the tremors, "But she knows her brother better than anyone. And she knows that the Keeper and Warlord of the Diceni are using this to consolidate their power in the North. With Lavellan in their fray, there's nothing stopping Keeper Paeris' trade expansion....except Clan Abersher'al."

Gherlanna stopped thrumming her staff suddenly, stilling her hands before they reflexed around the smooth wood, but it was the Hearth Matron who spoke again, "You're making leaps in logic, da'len. Why would the Maiden losing her title have Lavellan absorbed into the Diceni?"

"Because Lavellan’s Council is in shambles!" Sellarin found her voice again, "They can't agree on anything, and it nearly crippled them when the human mercenaries attacked them. Keeper Paeris will use this weakness to have the Council absorbed, and the rest of the clan along with them. They pick up Lavellan's hunting grounds, trade agreements, and most importantly...their hunters."

She looked up meaningfully at the Triumvirate, and her hidden message was not lost on them. Lavellan's hunters, even after Minanter, were still plentiful, well-trained, and armed with the best weapons of any clan. They would make a formidable milita if Paeris decided to earn the trade routes on the Silent Plains by force.

"Surely he can't mean to take what we refused to give to him?" Remada asked her fellow Council members fearfully, "We can't let this happen!"

"Peace, lethallan," Ellya help up her palm, "This is all supposition. The missive the Maiden sent me said none of this. She simply requested our aid in freeing Diceni hunters being held against their will for disagreeing with their Keeper."

"But it all makes sense, doesn't it?" Remada's voice rose, the gentle rasp becoming shrill and high, "Elain wouldn't go through all this trouble for a few dissenters! Her failures are not so great that she would risk disgrace and embarrassment for this!"

"She could also be scared. No matter what happens, judgment awaits her. Perhaps she thinks this is a way to delay it? Or alleviate some of the harshness of it?"

Llyn felt the muscles in his body begin to loosen at this back and forth debate. They'd done it. Sowed the seeds of doubt and paranoia, and now it was bearing fruit. The Triumvirate were known to make decisions based on the side of caution though, so he needed something to drive the point home. Something that would make them act…

“Maybe the Maiden thinks that by banding Clan Lavellan and Clan Abersher’al together, that they can eliminate the threat of the Diceni overtaking to North once and for all,” Sellarin posited coolly, her thoughts going the same way Llyn’s had, “After all, Keeper Paeris thinks the Triumvirate is a relic best left in the past, not even a lore important enough to be remembered. _‘No evidence of this kind of governance in my studies of the Dales’_ , as he would say.”

The back and forth stopped, and all three sets of eyes fell on Sellarin simultaneously. Each face held a look of offense and dismay, unable to believe the pomposity of the statement. Sel looked nervously to Llyn as they stared through her, but he knew it was an act. She had found the thing that would fuel their fire, so to speak, and now she needed only stoke it. 

“I, uh, I thought everyone knew about that up North?” she said timidly, though she was anything but, “It’s all the gossip around hearthfires for the Diceni and the Silures. The Antivan clans makes a joke out of it.”

“Do they?” Ellya asked tonelessly, and he feared for a moment that they had gone too far. 

“Yes, hahren,” Sellarin responded, but said no more. Llyn supposed she didn’t want to lay it on too thick; it would be less believable. 

“I’ve heard enough,” Gherlanna finally spoke again. She stood up from her position at the center of the Triumvirate, leaning on her staff, and the long robes spun with the bluest linen Llyn had ever seen ebbed and flowed like a tide with each flare of flame in the Great Hearth. She stood like a statue, an ancient reminder of the strength The People possessed. The other two members of the Council joined her, but it was clear who the final decision would rest on. 

“This upstart from the Steppes has meddled in our affairs for the last time. He thinks us weak, fragile, simply because we listen to the Hearth Keeper’s Will, and follow the Vir Ati’shan. But just because we seek out peace, does not mean we will be walked over. If he wants to meet the strength of Abersher’al and the Clans of the Deserts, then he shall. With all the force of the Sister of the Moon, and all the fire of She of the Moth.”

“Hahren,” Ellya laid her hand gently on Gherlanna’s wrist, and Remada did the same, her eyes full of fear and pleading. The Keeper shook them both off her, and hardened her stance.

“The Maiden’s pleas have been heard. Her Sister Scion shall answer the calls and liberate the hunters from their imprisonment. Our price will be decided once the deed is done, and once Keeper Paeris learns that upholding tradition is not a weakness. Perhaps his downfall will finally hit the point home.”

She hit the base of her staff against the ground.

“That is my word. Go in peace, lethallin. Find comfort in your time now, for you will leave as soon as the Ethinan can prepare.”

It was a dismissal, and Llyn and Sellarin bowed respectfully before the Triumvirate before walking back around the Great Hearth that snapped it’s fuel of dried wood loudly. As guests, they were not expected to stay for the Council meeting for the entire clan, and as such, were escorted back to the guest pavilion they had been assigned to. 

They went inside the small but lavish room, collapsing onto the soft cushions sprawled over the floor, and listened for the footsteps of their escort leaving. Once the sound of swishing fabric faded into silence once again, Llyn let out a groan and covered his face with his hands.

“I can’t believe we convinced them!” he exclaimed behind his palms, relieved and terrified all at once.

“Told you I could,” Sellarin said quietly.

“Yeah, but I actually helped! I was so sure I was going to choke, but I helped!”

“You sure did buddy,” she replied sleepily, “Get some rest though. It’s still a long ways to the steppes.”

“Okay, I will,” he answered her.

Yet long after the spy had drifted off, her soft, rhythmic breathing the only sound that filled their small pavilion, Llyn found his eyes wide and heart racing with anticipation. He stared at the thin, draped fabric of the ceiling, and could nearly see the night sky shining through. If he had been back home, he’d never have been able to do that. The fear would’ve sat in his gut, and he would’ve just watched helplessly as Elain and Old Bida controlled the conversation and pushed it towards whatever they wanted. 

But here was different. He faced that constant fear that seemed to flow through him like blood, and he had been rewarded for it. The familiar gnawing was still there, but quieter, more subdued as he saw his efforts pay off. Llyn knew that Sellarin was right; there were still the Diceni to deal with. 

In that moment though...he felt _triumphant._

_\---_

“Blech. Can’t even get a decent drink here, Madame Herald. The stables in Haven were better equipped than this piss hole.”

Sera complained loudly, her voice a mix of mocking affluence and her Denerim drawl, as she maneuvered a fluted wine glass into the face of her horse mask, certainly not getting any of the liquid inside her actual mouth. It dribbled out the side, and after she pulled the glass away, she shook her head vigorously. It made the mask move like gelatin, jiggling and wiggling, the wine flying out everywhere in a shower. The two nobles standing next to her scowled and grimaced behind their elaborate masks, making the beautiful craftsmanship look comical on their disgusted faces.

Sar’een choked at the sight, nearly pulling her own drink up her nose. 

The nobles, clearly not amused at Sera’s antics, finally moved away from the path that lead to the staircase offside of the hallway connecting the vestibule of the palace and the gardens. Sar’een could now see two elven servants standing at the bottom of the stairs, their masked faces looking up at her inquiringly. 

“Told you I could get ‘em to move,” Sera proclaimed as she moved next to her, “And also told you they’d be waiting.”

She pointed at the elves, and as she did, they both curtsied politely.

“I never doubted you for a minute,” Sar’een assured her with a laugh as they descended the stairs to meet their contacts. “Greetings,” she said lightly, sweetly, hoping that these servants had the information she needed to help stop this assassination. 

“Your Worship,” a short, rotund woman greeted her. She was obviously not one of the servants who was serving drinks and food. Her apron was covered in flour and grease, and her hair curled against her forehead, slick with sweat. A baker, or a palace cook, most likely. Her accent was a gentle Orlesian, a sign that she was not born here, but it was difficult to distinguish where, exactly, “I am Katrina. Follow me, if you’d please.”

“Uh…” she started, unsure of the where Katrina’s familiarity came from.. Sar’een had studied the Game with Vivienne enough to know that not even the servants were immune to it. Everyone played, and everyone had a motive. What could this cook’s motive be?

“S’alright, Noodly,” Sera whispered next to her, “She’s one of my little people contacts. No second guesses. She also makes really good mince pies. Not too chewy at all!”

“Okay, I trust you,” she whispered back, and followed the cook and her accomplice through a non-descript door at the left of the stairs. 

The music in the main hall faded to a low hum, and the chattering of the noble gathering all but disappeared as that door shut behind them. Sar’een took account of the room around her; a short hallway, leading off to several smaller rooms, and at the end, a large, open kitchen. These were servants quarters. Compact and tight, and easily hidden from the far more expensive grandeur of the palace that hosted its illustrious guests. The quarters smelled of smoke and bread, and was much warmer than anywhere else she had been that night. The difference in comfort was also quite stark.

“Just a little further,” Katrina motioned to her as walked into the open kitchen at the end of the hallway, and the others followed close behind. The kitchen itself had a door that led to another hallway, one Katrina guided them down, and Sar’een couldn’t help but notice dark, wet spots on the dirt floor. There had been an attempt to clean whatever had spilled up with straw and a broom, but it seems the job had been left half finished.

“Blood,” Katrina pointed out as she stepped around the spots, lifting the dusty hem of her skirts as she did so, “She’ll explain more when we arrive.”

Sar’een looked to Sera, who shrugged, then back to Katrina, “Who will explain? Why is there blood everywhere?”

“You’ll see,” the cook answered enigmatically. She trusted Sera and her networking, but this situation was starting to unsettle her.

At last, they reached the end of the bloodied hallway, and walked through a final door that led them to a small courtyard with a tiny fountain and trellises arcing over it. Velvet draped couches sat in the corners of this tiny garden, and far off, the giggles of a noblewoman could be heard.

“The Love Nest,” Sera explained to her as Katrina led them around the fountain, “Where nobles sneak off during these parties to see what’s under their dresses or breeches. Mostly arses and hair. Wonder when they cleaned that couch last…”

“Hush,” Katrina scolded them as she squeezed her plump body between two trellises, “We must be quiet now.”

Sar’een and Sera followed her, but the other servant waited outside. She surmised he was the watch; someone who knew who to run to or what signal to use if they were going to be discovered. The system these servants had was no less complicated than the plots and schemes the nobles wove into their games.

The small group pushed their way through branches and shrubbery that surrounded the courtyard, trying their best to keep the noise down. It was only a minute later they found their way out and onto a short cobblestone path that ran the length of a secluded wall in the closed off portion of the palace. They were obviously not meant to be there, but this is where she was sure this was exactly where they had to be to get to the bottom of the more insidious plots transpiring this evening.

“Through here,” Katrina opened a wrought iron door that led them to another hallway, but took an immediate left once inside. There, they stood before a wooden door. It seemed entirely out of the ordinary, but for a brilliant blue light coming from underneath it. It was powerful magic --more powerful than she had felt outside of the Fade-- and it made her uneasy.

“What’s going on? What’s that light? _Why_ did you bring me here?” Sar’een asked the cook forcefully now, all too aware that Sera would’ve never consented to some kind of magical intervention. She cast barriers on herself and her friend in preparation for a fight, making Sera give a little whimper as she did.

“You’ll have to excuse Katrina, Inquisitor. She is never one with words. But truly, we mean you no harm.”

She turned around to see another elven woman standing behind them, dressed in servant's clothes as well, but with an expensive --and dangerous-- bow attached to her back. 

“In fact, we only wish to help. Help prevent an assassination, help stop Corypheus, and aid with...much more.” The woman wore the Valmont mask, and pinned her dark hair up at the crown of her head, “I am Ambassador Briala. A pleasure.”

She gave Sar’een a slight bow, then rose again and flicked her wrist towards Katrina. The cook opened the door that had so startled her, and when she peered inside to see the source of the magic, she was stunned at what was found.

_An Eluvian._

An intact, beautifully glowing, slightly humming Eluvian. Relics of their people’s shared history. Reminders of the magic and engineering that they lost. The mirror itself --if it could even be called that -- swirled with magic that felt so much like the anchor on her hand; mysterious and compelling, bright and empowering, and altogether invigorating. It was framed by gilded carvings of arches and branches, and flanked on one side by a statue of a dragon covering its face with a wing. It was carved from alabaster and so thin, she could nearly see the face of the dragon through the wing, it’s eye embedded with a shining sapphire that reflected the harsh magic glow of the mirror. It was a testament to the Old Empire, of Elvhenan, and for a moment, Sar’een forgot everything else.

She approached it reverently, as she felt was needed. These were made by her people. People so in tune with magic, they could craft items such as these out of the most simple items. Every Dalish had heard the story of the Eluvian and Clan Sabrae, and how the Hero of Fereldan only became a Warden because of its corruption, but to see one in the flesh….it was awe-inspiring. 

How could something so beautiful, so lovingly crafted be corrupted? How could something that called to her very soul, that filled her heart with wonder, be the reason why Mahariel left his heart and home to save the world? She refused to believe there wasn’t more to it. It could not be. It called to her, and Sar’een could not help but answer, reaching out the tips of her fingers to touch the ebbing magic that looked like water pooling on the surface of glass.

Sera surely said something, but she didn’t hear it. Instead, she just heard a far away song. Ethereal voices singing to her and just to her when her fingertips dipped into the surface; lyrics in the Old Language, but still understandable, filling her heart as the magic flowed into her. She closed her eyes and listened. 

_Garas falon. Andaran atish’an._

It was a welcoming, an invitation, and Sar’een felt it all the way to the core of her soul. This was her people’s magic. Her people’s work. Her people’s legacy. It was her as well. It was her when there was no her, and when there was always a her. The feeling was entirely new and made no sense, but it was warm and comforting. 

She only wished Paeris could see this.

The spell broke though, when she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She turned her head and Briala stared back her in her mask. The metal trim reflected the light of the magic just as surely as the water that coated her eyes, making her look like a lost spirit. But Sar’een knew better, and forced herself to shake the wonder and awe she felt so that she could address the issues at hand. As wonderful as this was, she still had a goal to complete.

“It’s lovely, no?” the ambassador asked her as she ran her fingertips just above the surface of the magic, “Truly a wonder of the world. But even more lovely is what it does. Would you like to see?”

“I would,” she replied longingly as she watched the magic react to Briala’s touch.

“Then follow me.”

The ambassador walked into the magic, her whole body immersed in it, and disappeared. Sar’een looked behind the Eluvian and saw only the wall and an empty crate. Briala had simply gone into the magic, and it took her somewhere that wasn’t here. She had heard the stories, but to see it in action...her breath caught in her throat.

“You aren’t really going to follow her into a demon’s belly?” Sera spoke up from behind her, her voice faltering and her brow furrowed in her fear, “It’s magic _and_ elfy in there.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she tried to comfort her friend, “You can stay here with Katrina. I won’t be long.”

“Proper fudging elfy shite and piss magic,” Sera grumbled under her breath, but it would not deter her. She took a deep breath, centering herself, then propelled her body into the singing magic before her.

Nothing could prepare her for what she saw on the other side. 

She wasn’t sure what she had expected. Perhaps something like a dream, full of tempting whispers and hazy memories. But what she walked into was as clear as the Minanter in summer; crystalline and reflective, motes of light floating in a landscape remnant of an Ageless Empire. It was a road, cobbled together with stones that glittered with runes, that wound and weaved through otherworldly flora. Flora that, on closer inspection, was a fabrication. Metal and stone shaped and work to mimic a tree, a shrub, a flower, but did not need air or sun or water to live. Sar’een wanted to reach out and touch a nearby facsimile of a tree, but she was afraid to touch anything here, lest the dream crumbled and she would lose it forever. 

“This was our world once,” Briala spoke from next to her, the floating streams of light and magic that hovered over this construct giving her mask a dull glow now, “And these Eluvians led from one end of the Empire to another. Our people walked these paths freely. Traveling from the Anderfels to the Kocari Wilds, an entire continent belonging to them.”

“What is this place?” she asked her quietly, afraid that speaking too loudly would awaken the long dead creators of this world.

“A place that is not a place,” Briala answered, “The best I can tell is that they are magical roads built to get from one destination to another very quickly. Somehow, I doubt this is part of Thedas.”

“Then part of the Fade?”

“Perhaps,” Briala nodded, “Though, I am not a mage. I could not tell you with any certainty. Maybe this is a place in between, made entirely from magic, but not quite the place where we go when we dream. What matters is that it is here, still standing, after all this time.”

“It is,” she agreed with the ambassador. It was overwhelming standing here, knowing this was a residual clue to who The People were. 

“As are our people,” she continued, barely recognizing Sar’een’s response, “And that’s why I brought you here. So you can see our shared heritage. Our shared past. And hopefully, our shared future.”

“ _‘Hopefully’_?”

“I never gamble, Inquisitor. You might be confused for a servant in the Winter Palace, but both of us know we come from very different places. Hedging my bets on someone who has never endured the struggle the elves of Halamshiral and all of Orlais go through...well, it could be a dangerous folly.”

“You have some sort of proposition for me, don’t you?” Sar’een attempted to get to the crux of the matter. 

“But of course. I would not come here empty-handed, not with the stakes so high,” the ambassador explained as she began walking slowly down the magical path. She lifted her chin and invited Sar’een to follow, “I’m sure you’ve already seen what Gaspard and Celene have to offer?”

“I have,” she admitted easily, knowing that Briala had eyes and ears all over the palace. There would be no use trying to hide her meetings with the Empress and Grand Duke a secret, “Gaspard is eager to finish this war and defeat Corypheus so he can move onto Ferelden, and Celene is eager to do the same so she can go back to ruling her empire.”

“Astute,” Briala said wryly, “It seems I don’t have to coach you into seeing the truth.”

The path seemed to come alive as they walked along it. The facsimile of flora curled and grew over each stone they passed, twisting and writhing in some long forgotten purpose they once served. Vine-like constructs tipped at the their feet, like animals testing the threat of the intruders in their domain, and once they sensed the blood of their creators, they bloomed miraculously, the petals as soft and dewy as the real thing. They glowed bright blue, almost fluorescent, and there was a peace to be found in that otherworldly glow that was unexpected, but highly welcome.

“I believe the magic is reacting to you,” the ambassador pointed out, “It’s never done this whenever I pass through.”

“Probably because I’m a mage,” she deduced, then refocused her attentions, “Since I know the truth, what is it exactly you want me to do? I still don’t understand.”

Briala slowed her stride to a stop, and stood in the middle of the path as the world bloomed with artificial life around them. She brought her hands to her face and removed her mask.

“I only request that you use your best judgment. I am sure Gaspard has offered an army to defeat the great evil, as his chevalier heart would drive him to do. Such a sentimental one. But Celene would offer the same. You gain nothing that you wouldn’t already by saving the Empress’ life.”

Sar’een stood quietly next her, hugging her arms to her chest. She was suddenly cold, as if she was being watched, “Go on.” 

“If you support Gaspard in his claim to the throne, you destabilize Orlais. If you keep Celene on the throne, you validate her burning of Halamshiral.”

“Why do I have to support anyone for the throne?” she asked her tiredly, “I came here to stop an assassination, not decide who gets to rule the country.”

Briala smirked, her lips stretching into fine laugh lines, “Because the power well in which you can dip into now is far more immense than you can imagine. The greatest stabilizer in all of Southern Thedas is in shambles, looking to your leadership for guidance. Whether they wanted cooperate before or not is irrelevant. The Chantry will hear what you have to say, and what you have to say will give credence to who sits at the head of Orlais.”

“And what if I don’t care for either of them? What if I think they’re both rotten humans who care less about the downtrodden of Orlais than they do for their fancy palaces and the Game?” she asked her bitterly. Sar’een was growing so weary of this game, of dancing around what needed to be said, and seeing the glory of all her people lost only made it all the more infuriating. 

“Then this is where I offer you a third option. A way to absolve your conscious of leaving Orlais to the Orlesians,” Briala said with a grin, “This Eluvian is not the only one I know of. Not the only one by far. Do you see the end of this path?”

Sar’een squinted, and in the distance, saw another glowing light that mimicked the one she went through to get to this place, “Yes.”

“That is another one. And beyond that, another. These places are a honeycomb; complex and perilous, but a delicious prize nonetheless. My agents and myself have spent months navigating and securing these paths, striking at the power structure of the empire itself, then slinking back into the recesses of this magical place. I have walked from Orlais to Rivain in a matter of minutes, and I have an entire army of disgruntled elves ready to work for you.”

She sighed deeply, “And what do you want in return?”

Briala’s smile faded, and she crossed her arms across her chest, “The same thing I would hope you would want, Inquisitor. Respect for our people. Legal recourse for the abuses they suffer. A voice in the government that rules them. A home that will not be burned for the smallest indiscretion. I want them to be able to live their lives, as simple as it seems. Is that so much to ask?”

“In Orlais? It might be,” she responded bluntly. 

“Is that a battle you’re not willing to fight then?”

They both held no illusions as to what she was asking. She wanted the liberty of living freely given to the elves of Orlais and beyond, and it was no simple task. There was nothing more frightening to humans than elves working together, living together, governing themselves, having a voice. It meant they were people with hopes and dreams of their own, and that was a concept far too few of them understood. Sar’een also knew Briala was not asking her to right all the wrongs done to their people, as she indicated. She wanted an ally. A friend in power that could sustain her efforts, support her with additional forces, political pull, resources...a far greater price than both Gaspard and Celene would ask of her. 

But she also understood that she herself had already put the ball in motion in Wycome. Knowing that it would end with the Duke disposed, she sent agents and plans and involved her naive family and the elves suffering in the city itself. If she had succeeded, she would be setting an undeniable precedence. 

“You can give me access to these pathways? To the Eluvian network?” she finally asked the waiting ambassador.

“I can,” she replied curtly. 

“Then I believe our interests are aligned,” she stated with as much authority as she could, “We cannot allow another purging like Halamshiral happen again. Too many lives were lost.”

“I know,” Briala said sadly.

“I’ll do what I can. Send your people to talk to my spymaster’s agents. We’ll go from there,” Sar’een directed her before turning to leave. As much as she longed to stay in this place and explore these paths, the Winter Palace needed resolution. The magical glow of the Eluvian that led them here beckoned her when she began to walk towards it, and she promised herself that she would utilize Briala’s offer for her own exploration at another time. She could come back. She had to come back. 

“Of course, Inquisitor, but there is one more thing,” Briala called after her, “The information you need to save the night!”

She turned again, her brow creased in confusion.

“Grand Duchess Florianne has snuck Venatori agents into the ball. The blood you saw on the floor of the servant’s quarters were theirs. She is working with Corypheus to assassinate the Empress.”

“How?” 

Briala smiled again, this one wide and beautiful, “Bard’s secrets, my dear Inquisitor. Katrina will give you all the proof you need on the way out. Do what you will with the information. I will be watching closely.”

She nodded her understanding and closed her eyes once again before walking through the swirling magic of the Eluvian. When she found herself back on the other side, Katrina didn’t pause before handing over two scrolls and a what looked like a contract. She stared at them in disbelief, and without another word, the cook simply walked away, leaving her alone in that small room with Sera. The magical light soon left them too, and the Eluvian behind her went dormant, looking like nothing more than an ornate mirror now. 

“She didn’t put demons in your head, did she?” Sera asked her timidly, the horse mask clutched tightly in her hands.

“No, I’m fine,” she answered her, “She gave us everything we need.”

“For what?” her friend questioned. She folded the documents carefully and placed them in the inner pockets of her formalwear. 

“To decide the fate of an empire.”

\---

The Nacre Palace was much smaller than Elain expected. For a city as large and open to trade as Wycome, she would think the home of its Duke would be lavish and sprawling. It was decorated beautifully, and expensively, but there was also a humbleness to it that was slightly surprising. 

Or perhaps she simply wanted it to be that way so that their victory there would be all the more sweet. A united militia of elves over running a heavily fortified castle seemed much more thrilling than them taking over an oversized estate. Yet, it had been no small feat, and she had the conscious to be ashamed for thinking it. 

She sat patiently on a velvet bench in the Great Hall as wounded hunters and guild members were tended to, the dead were accounted for, and the leaders of each group debriefed the battle. By the looks of it, the battle here had been just as tight as hers in the alienage. She marveled at Revas’ ability to pull anyone together to save them in their hour of need after a fight within these walls. Elain made a mental note to suggest to Den and Deshanna that he be given accolades and the option to receive more vallaslin on his body to mark the victory. 

“Maiden, we’ve secured the remaining nobles as well as the Duke,” Twig brought a report to her as she watched the movement all around her, “There’s more than we originally thought, but definitely not enough to fill an entire district. We think some of them escaped the city.”

“More than likely,” she concurred, “I’m sure there’s some kind of access to the Catacombs from the palace itself.”

“Should we find the access and give chase?”

She shook her head, “No. We’ve lost enough people today. There’s no point in risking more. Escort the captured nobles to the dungeons and place them in cells. We’ll deal with them once the smoke clears.”

“Sure thing...but uh, one of them is requesting to speak to you,” he said reluctantly, “She won’t say how she knew you’d be here.”

Elain cocked her eyebrow at the statement, “Or how she knew me at all, I suppose?”

“Nope. You want to talk to her?”

“Not yet. Put her with the others and then let me know when the bedroom suites are cleared out. We need to start sleep rotations, and I’d like to go somewhere I can put my feet up. This stone floor is making my legs ache,” she said to him with a smile, and he nodded an affirmation of the order. He walked away to carry out her commands, and she was left with her thoughts again as she watched Deshanna lean over another hunter. This one’s leg was tattered from a sword, but he would surely be fine. It was a superficial tear, and magic would prevent a fever from settling in. She let out a sigh of relief. One less that would need buried. 

“Your bleeding stopped?”

The quiet solitude she had enjoyed for a few precious seconds was interrupted by the last person in the world she wanted to speak to in that moment. Paeris stood next to the velvet bench, looking intently at the makeshift dress job she did on the wound on her rib cage. 

“Yes,” she responded tersely, looking away from him as he sat down on the bench next to her. Without asking her, he pulled back the linen she had covered the wound with, pulling skin along with it, “That hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound it at all, “You really need something more than this. There’s already yellowish discharge. Let me use some magic…”

“Will you leave if I say ‘ _yes’_?” 

He snorted a chuckle out of his nose, “No, I won’t. Don’t be so stubborn, Elain. It’s only healing so you don’t catch a fever and die.”

She gave a deep sigh and moved her arm to the side so he could access the wound. The cooling touch of his magic seeping into it quickly, and the dull, throbbing pain she’d been enduring there began to subside. 

“You should not have come here, you know that don’t you? It was reckless and foolish,” he lectured her as the tendrils of light coiled in and out of her flesh, pulling it together, making it tingle, “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. And for what? Your pride?”

Elain set nothing, and instead, set her jaw tightly. 

“Ah, quiet now? Any other time you’d have an entire speech prepared about how I don’t understand the intricacies and necessity required to serve the Goddess. Is it difficult to patronize me about matters of divinity as you sit with your sin moving inside of you?” he scolded her sharply, pulling on his magic harder than necessary, making her wince. 

“How utterly demeaning to speak of your first niece or nephew as if they were some parasite born of my decisions! Whatever would your dear father-in-law say?” she snapped back at him, growing impatient already with his accusations. 

He frowned as he continued to work, “Threlen surely argued against you coming to the aid of the city eight months pregnant, Elain. Despite what you may think, he is a devoted father and would never want to see a child hurt because of their parents’ sins.”

“No wonder he hates you so much then.” He yanked on a piece of something embedded in her skin, sending sharp pain through her but making her laugh all the same.

“I must have hit a nerve. I deeply apologize, Paeris. Everyone knows you are the picture of a devoted husband and father. Some would even say you follow the example of _your own father_ ,” the words left between a wide smile, the corners of her mouth stretched until she felt that they would rip.

“Enough!” he said in a loud whisper, and yanked her entire arm to pull her closer to him. She pulled it away forcefully, unwilling to stand for him trying to subdue her. 

“Do not touch me like that again, Paeris,” she threatened him lowly, “You will regret it.”

“I already regret trying to help you,” he pushed off the velvet bench at her words, “You’re just as bratty as ever. I should’ve just left you to feed the vultures here. They’d get a full meal out of your hubris.”

“Is everything alright here?”

Sal approached the quarreling siblings along with Yemet, Warlord Threlen and Revas. Though the other three did not hide their concern, Sal at least attempted to keep his cool. She was beginning to appreciate the man more than she expected. 

“Fine,” she replied kindly, “My brother was just tending to my open wound. Everything should be settled now. Isn’t that right, Keeper?”

“Of course, Maiden,” he answered just as kindly, the bitterness gone from his voice in an instant. 

“Whatever you say,” Sal eyed them suspiciously, but opted not to pursue his questioning, “Looks like everything is wrappin’ up here though. What’s our next move?”

“The dead must be buried and given proper rites,” Paeris answered, “We will need to send a runner to have the rest of Clan Lavellan join us here so at least they can say goodbye to their lost loved ones. It would be too long to wait for my own clan to do the same.”

“They will understand,” Threlen said firmly, “They are hunters. All devote their lives to their trade knowing this may happen. Their families can mourn when we return.”

“What about the alienage? And the rest of the city?” Yemet asked, his face scrunched in concern, “The whole damn thing’s on fire.”

“We’ll focus on putting out fires and calling the elves out in the tributaries back into the city while we wait for our clan to arrive,” Revas assured him, “What we really need to worry about is the water though. Both clan’s hunters have to drink, the guild has to drink, the merchants, the refugees...Where’s it going to come from?”

“Are there any sources that are uncorrupted?” Elain asked the small war council. 

“The alienage well. The tributaries outside the city,” Sal listed off the clean sources, “Maybe some other places. Can’t touch anything else in the city though. Don’t wanna chance it.”

“Then we won’t. We’ll use the sources we know are safe to drink from and to put out the fires. In the meantime, I’ll coordinate search parties outside the city walls to bring the other city elves back,” Paeris attempted to conclude the meeting, “I’ll also speak with The Hand about what can be done about the red lyrium. Threlen?”

Her brother motioned for the Warlord to follow him, and the two walked away, plans already in motion to take over the recovery part of this mission. Elain was relieved to see him go. Let him busy himself with his false compassion and stay out of her way for the time being. 

“Well, that guy didn’t bring it up, but there’s also the matter of the Duke,” Sal said as he watched the Keeper walk away, “What’s going to happen with him?”

“The Duke funded and ordered my Prey to destroy my clan. His fate will be decided once the clan arrives,” Elain explained to him. 

“Now that sounds reasonable to you and all, but you gotta understand Maiden, a lot of folks around here are gonna want to seem some kind of justice,” Sal argued back gently, “He’s the reason the alienage is burning. Reason Jossa is dead. Reason a lot of folks are dead. We aren’t gonna just let him walk away.”

She narrowed her eyes at the floor and spoke lowly, “I have no intention of letting him walk away, Sal. Trust me.”

The bartender shifted between his feet anxiously, but at last gave a sigh, “Okay. I’ll trust you on this. You’ve done right by my people so far. I don’t think you’ll just let this go unanswered.”

“Thank you.”

“Augh, enough of this mush. I gotta get the refugees moved and out of that smoke. Didn’t come all this way to lose them to black lung,” Sal grumbled as he also took his leave, “Come on Yemet. I’m gonna need you to start pulling food caches the Guild’s got hidden.”

“Yeah yeah,” Yemet followed grumpily, his shoulders slumped, but turned his head briefly to flash them a smile, “We really should have some kind of party though, Maiden. I gotta buy your baby’s father there a drink for jumping a Maker damned moat!”

Sal gave the Guild Master a slap on the back of his head to make him focus, making Yemet laugh, and as they crossed over to leave the Main Hall, Elain was left alone with Revas for the first time since he left to march on the palace. It felt like a lifetime since then. As if she walked a forest path for an eternity, and only now got to see the light peeking through the canopy of the trees. 

“You jumped over a moat?” she asked him playfully as he sat down next to her on the bench, his limbs going slack from exhaustion. 

“Long story, but sort of, yeah,” he answered her with a smile. Pieces of his hair had fallen out of the bun he wore, leaving dirty strands clinging to his blood streaked face. He had gotten a new cut across his nose. A scar he would keep, she was sure. One to be worn as a badge of pride as well as a reminder. She reached up to touch it, running her fingertip just above it, hovering from one side of the cut to the other. 

“Got it from Donovan himself,” he explained without her having to ask, “One on one combat, if you can believe it.”

“I can,” she said quietly as she let her finger drag away from his cut and along his jaw. He gave a sigh as she did so, and she watched as his eyes looked her over, seeking something out.

“How’s our Da’assan? Still trying to get out?” he placed his hand on her stomach. 

“The contractions slowed down and aren’t regular anymore. I think the fight put it under stress,” she surmised as she looked down on his hand.

“I hope it stays in there until my mom gets here,” he moved his hand off of her and wrapped it around her waist instead, pulling her closing to him, “She will be so pissed if she misses it.”

She gave a small laugh, “She will. But I’m glad too. I don’t think I’m ready yet. This is all too much to take in at once, don’t you think?”

He kissed the side of her head tenderly, then rested his chin atop of it, “Yeah, but I think we can handle it. We made it out of this alive, didn’t we?”

“We did,” she agreed, snuggling her face into his neck.

“Then what’s one more thing? As long as we have each other…”

She interlaced her fingers in his and sighed when he squeezed them tightly, “Do you really believe that? Just being together means we can handle….all of this?”

The candles of the Great Hall had been burning for hours, and many now began to go out, leaving it darker, quieter, somehow more peaceful. Hunters began their rotations and many eagerly rushed to slumber, desperate to recover from the long days they had endured. Elain was left with her Shadow in that quiet, the candelabra nearest them flickering and going out as well, with no elven servants anymore to replenish them. She didn’t mind and was positive he would not either. The quiet was welcome after everything.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned against him, exhausted to her very bones, his rhythmic breathing lulling her into a light sleep as well, despite her efforts to stay awake. Maybe just a few moments of rest. It couldn’t hurt. 

“I do, Peach,” Revas said to her before Elain’s thoughts drifted into dreams. 

“I really do.”


	39. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deals are made, schemes are hatched, and lines are drawn in Wycome.

It was three days after the last opposition force fell in the alienage of Wycome before Clan Lavellan arrived to bury their dead. The fertile land outside of the city had already gone back to some semblance of normalcy; the field workers who had fled the conflict returned gradually, picking up their tools again as if nothing happened. They sweated and toiled under the hot, late-spring sun, only pausing when they saw the herds of halla driven down the main road, and the large aravels with their bright red sails following close behind. As soon as they passed on their procession to the city, the farmers and farmhands ducked their heads down again, and continued to work the fields that would be integral to the survival of everyone inside.

Elain watched the procession and the disinterest of the farmers from the safety of the old city walls, the masonry cracked and dusty, but still standing none the less. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, but thankfully, late season rains had helped the efforts to extinguish the fires dotting Wycome’s different districts immensely. Her warband swung the city gates proper open the day before, and before her clan had even arrived, people began to return to the Pearl of the Free Marches. It was as if the battle and everything that had transpired were a mere inconvenience, and what they had accomplished was expected, rather than celebrated. Life went on, even if Death had come and claimed so many between His long teeth.

She leaned against that ancient masonry and brooded far too long on the thought. It was unacceptable to her that this was how their accomplishments were treated. They had liberated the entire city from the clutches of red lyrium and its mad Duke, and it was just business as usual not a week later. The merchants cleaned out the Bazaar and set up shop, making money off the traders and sailors that returned as well, and the elves that trickled in stared out from their shacks in the alienage with haunted eyes. 

There had to be something done, though Elain could not quite place her finger on what. All she knew was that this could not be allowed to happen again. The thought of elves’ bodies used and discarded like refuse made her anger simmer in her stomach, burning low and long. She would find a way to stop this. Whatever may come with her title and her role in the clan, she would still find a way. 

She let out a long sigh and pushed off the stone of the wall as she saw Revas and Twig below greeting the rest of the Council at the gates and escorting them inside the city itself. Sohta would pen the halla, her father and Aricia would instruct their people to set up camp outside the walls, and the Keeper would debrief everyone on what happened shortly after. The afternoon would hold funeral rites, and after that, a celebration of the lives of those who were lost, as well as a celebration of their victory. It would be a long day for her, and she could only hope her restless child would be still while it all transpired. 

As she turned to walk back down the bulwark to meet with Deshanna and the rest of the Council, she was surprised to see Warlord Threlen ascending to the top of the staircase nearest to her. He bowed his head lightly in deference, always one to mark the tradition of respect, and she did the same to him. 

“Maiden,” he started, slightly out of breath, “I’m glad I caught you before you rejoined Lavellan’s council.”

“What can I do for you, Threlen?” she asked as she met him at the stairs. 

“Nothing for me personally,” he said dutifully, “But there is a matter of urgency that needs your assistance.”

He held out his arm, and she hooked her elbow over his forearm to balance herself as the descended the stairs of the bulwark that would lead them to the courtyard entrance of the bazaar below.

“One o f the nobles that was taken prisoner has become more and more agitated at her confinement. Your hunters put her in an isolated cell once she asked for you by name. This has not pleased her,” he explained.

“No doubt,” she concurred, “But she is complicit with all the others, whether she asked by name or not.”

“I agree. All the untainted nobles of this city watched as these poor souls were slaughtered, content to the safety of the palace. They are cowards at best, traitors at worst,” they crossed over the bazaar, careful to step around the elves, dwarves, and humans alike scurrying to get back to business, “But after you did not wish to speak to her, she has become more insistent. Now she demands to speak with the smuggler in regarding to ‘ _Inquisition matters_ ’ as well.”

“She asked for Rin by name too?”

“Yes. Normally, I’d think a desperate attempt to find some comfort after having endured a cell for a few days, but how would she know the smuggler was sent by the Inquisition?” Threlen asked her, “It is very suspicious.”

“Agreed. Have you ordered someone to escort Rin to the Nacre Palace?” 

“Of course. But you proclaimed this operation a Dire Hunt. I defer to you on this matter,” he answered her, “Whatever you do though, I would recommend haste. The Keeper of the Diceni will become aware of it sooner rather than later, and he may feel the need to overturn your proclamation if he feels the matter serious enough.”

A warning. No hidden messages, no need to decipher the Warlord’s words and watch his movements for every tell. Something she could always appreciate in Threlen was his impatience for pulling the strings. He was a man of action, and those who acted the quickest and got the most results were the ones he respected. She nodded her agreement with his assessment, but felt no further need to discuss it. Another thing she could appreciate.

They walked down the all but empty Poppy Avenue, still cracked and broken from the heavy fighting that had been done there. The recovery efforts had not arrived in this part of the city yet, and no one was in a hurry to get their either. The alienage took precedence, along with the Bazaar and the docks. The city’s survival must come first, and then if they so wished, they could turn their focus back on the luxury. 

They made their way across the bridge and into the Nacre Palace, where Threlen led her to the antechamber of the Duke’s private suite. She had been conducting meetings and coordinating recovery efforts for the past few days, and provided her with a comfortable area to establish plans to save the city. 

To their surprise however, Sal and his merchant acquaintance, Rhian, were already sitting in the room along with Rin. The small group sat anxiously on the plush velvet couches that surrounded short, walnut tables, heels tapping, knees bouncing, fingernails being picked. They obviously knew something about this noblewoman that Threlen and the Dalish did not.

“What are you doing here, Sal? I thought you were overseeing the water transport?” she asked him gently as she took a seat on the high-backed chair still empty. 

“Got a couple of people I can trust on it. One of the guild members thought we might be able to use your clan’s halla to move water in from the tributaries. Need to talk to your Keeper about it,” he explained.

She cocked an eyebrow at his excuses, knowing full well that wasn’t why he was here, “And what does that have to do with Rin? And the merchants?”

Sal looked towards the smuggler, who was being eerily quiet, then back to her, “Yeah, about that. Got wind of a noblewoman asking for her at the same time I got some other news. Figured I might see what happens.”

“You’re being evasive,” she pointed out, then reached for a metal pitcher that had been placed on the table. She poured the fruit juice inside into a cup from the same set as the pitcher, then brought it to her mouth to take a sip, still eyeing the bartender.

He merely cleared his throat and looked down on his feet in response. Whatever the issue, he was waiting to talk about it. 

“I’ll go get the noblewoman,” Threlen said in silent understand, then left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Elain swirled the juice in the cup in her hand.

“What news did you receive?” she pressed Sal, hoping to get some sort of answer.

“Just a rumor from Rhian here. Could be serious, could be a joke. I don’t wanna talk until I know for sure.”

“Then by all means, stay,” she set her cup back down, then looked towards Rin, “Do you know anything about this?”

“Nope,” she responded casually, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

There was a soft knocking on the door that interrupted them, “I suppose we’ll find out now then.” She straightened her back and smoothed out the skirts of her dress, “Come in!”

Threlen returned to the room with a woman; noble, by her clothing and posture, but obviously disheveled from her stay in the palace’s cells. Still, she held her chin high and presented herself with all the pride one could muster. A few stray strands of gray hair and smudges of dust could not take away all the years in which privilege shaped this woman as a stone was shaped by a river. Threlen led her to a chair opposite of Elain, and motioned for her to sit. She did so gracefully and without argument. 

“Good morning, Lady Maiden. It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” the noblewoman spoke with a heavy Orlesian accent, void of any drawl. Blue-blooded, through and through, “I am Lady Guinevere Volant of House DesJardins, close friend of the Montilyet family, and informant to the Inquisition. Had you not locked me in that horrid dungeon, I would have happily told you this days ago.”

The pieces began to fall into place, and the pawns that had been moved across the board became clear. This Lady Volant was an agent of Sar’een’s, her inside source in the city, placed there deliberately to get information. It was somewhat surprising how clever using a noble as a spy was, and even more surprising that Sar’een saw it. It seemed the First of Clan Lavellan Elain remembered had become cunning and careful in her time away from her clan. 

“You’ll have to excuse my precaution, Lady Volant. Taking back the city has been harrowing on our people, and trusting the nobles who closed their eyes to the horrors inflicted here was not my priority. I hope you understand,” she locked eyes with Volant, establishing herself as one who could not be intimidated. Sar’een may have set the pieces into place, but it was her hunters’ blood that fueled the game. 

Lady Volant look up at Threlen still standing next to her, a silent sentinel, and pursed her lips tightly, “And you still do not trust me, by the looks of it. Luckily for you, needn’t have to. I have missives from the Inquisitor herself that were sent with an agent among the city. Rinlyra, if you would?”

“Ah, yeah, right,” the smuggler patted her pockets and clothes, looking for something. At last, she pulled a piece of parchment from her bolt quiver, “Yup, it’s right here, still sealed and everything! Can you believe it?” 

She held out the paper towards Elain,and she snatched it from her grip. Whether or not Rin knew all along who the noblewoman was would have to wait. She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, reading the words inside.

_To the most venerable Maiden,_

_Greetings from Skyhold. I hope this letter finds you well. By the Grace of the Creators, you have captured the Duke and broke the foothold Corypheus had on Wycome. Congratulations on your victory. I never doubted you for a moment._

_By now you have also met my informant, Lady Volant. She will be able to give you integral information about the state of the city. Please listen to her intel carefully and make informed decisions regarding the Duke and the nobles of the city on my behalf. If your orders are carried out in the Inquisition’s name, the clan will be safe from retaliation from other Marcher cities._

_I trust you to make the right choices and further my cause in Wycome as recompense for the aid I provided in taking back the city. Hopefully, my next visit there will show the fruit of your labors._

_May the Lady of the Path guide you, and may the Lady of the Hunt make sure your aim is true._

_Sincerely,_

_Inquisitor Lavellan_

She rolled the paper back up tightly, then slipped it into the pockets of her dress. It would need to be burned later, but her assumptions she developed about Sar’een’s intentions before they entered the city seemed to be confirmed. The Inquisitor was using the clan for something much larger than they knew. It did not take all her cunning to know what that something was.

“The Inquisitor seems to believe you have vital information, Lady Volant. Information about the affairs of Wycome that would be useful to me,” Elain started, staring intently on the noblewoman, “I would very much like to hear it.”

Lady Volant smiled tightly, the deep creases in the corners of her mouth becoming prominent, “I would love to discuss these issues, Lady Maiden. But first I must secure a more comfortable welcome from your people. A room within the palace and out of the cells will suffice.”

Elain waved her hand, “Consider it done.”

Volant inclined her head in acceptance, “I knew you would be reasonable. So many awful rumors of the Dalish barbarism, but it’s so refreshing to see how wrong the rumors can be, yes?”

Elain picked up her cup of juice again and sipped in the liquid of the rim, “So strange that the Dalish are the ones called _‘barbaric’_ when humans committed wholesale slaughter without regards to the lives of the elves they callously took.”

“A travesty, to be sure, but the Tevinter advisors and the Duke assured the nobles of Wycome that the elves were the cause of the city’s problems. They even called the liberation a ‘ _coup’_. These northerners are so easily convinced of the simplest deceits.”

“So they are,” another sip, “I suppose that’s the important information you have to divulge. That the nobles of Wycome will not go quietly as their Duke is deposed.”

Lady Volant’s eyebrows rose in surprise, “Astute observation, and quiet true. You know that they have escaped the city through the catacombs?”

“Yes.”

“They are seeking refuge and retribution in other Marcher cities. Ansburg is too small for a response, so they will go to Starkhaven. They will speak of an elven uprising, led by apostates summoning demons, and if there’s one thing the Prince of Starkhaven does not like, it is apostates summoning demons.”

Elain furrowed her brow in thought, “They’ll call for the Amalgamated Guard to investigate?”

“No,” Lady Volant replied tersely, “The Free Army will march. The Marcher cities do not take well to foreign forces occupying their cities. Once it’s decided, the nobles will send their armies to rectify that.”

“Damn it. You were right, Rhian,” Sal mumbled with finality before covering his face with his hands, “Damn it damn it damn it.”

“Sal, we gotta do something! There’s not enough of us to defend again if the Free Army marches!” Rhian began to panic, grabbing the bartender by the collar, “And they won’t ask questions. They’ll kill anyone who helped you!”

“Shut your trap, I know it, alright?!” Sal snapped.

“Hmm, this does seem to be a predicament, doesn’t it?” Lady Volant brushed the concern off. She knew what had to be done. But so did Elain.

“Don’t panic,” she spoke to Sal and Rhian, “The Inquisitor would not aid us to take back the city in an uprising without some plan to deal with the Free Army. My clan will contact her and wait for her response.”

“Is that what that note said?” Sal questioned her.

It was not what the note had said. Not entirely. But Elain knew to read between the lines. Sar’een did have a plan here, an endgame, and by divine luck, she entrusted Elain with making sure the board was set for her to declare checkmate. That was not for Sal and the merchants to know, not yet. Nor was it Threlen’s or Lady Volant’s. The Inquisitor trusted her to make the right moves so that her plan would go as seamlessly as possible, and Elain reveled in the subtle brilliance of it. The fact that she got to the lay the bricks, do the wetwork…well, it made her positively giddy. 

“Yes,” she answered Sal with a smile, genuine and full, “And I trust her completely. She hasn’t led us astray yet. We will wait, and we will abide by her advice. Besides, it will take weeks for the Marcher cities to raise the Free Army. Many things could change in that time.”

“Yeah, it could. Still don’t like the sound of it,” Sal said anxiously.

“I know, but we have little other choice now. Leaving the city is not an option,” she attempted to ease his fears, “And no matter what the response is, Clan Lavellan will stand with our kin. We will not abandon you. Not now, not when the Free Army marches.”

He nodded, though his face was still pale, “Alright, alright. ‘Preciate it.”

“Since the matter is settled until Inquisitor Lavellan can make a decision, there is nothing more to discuss,” Elain began to stand up from her chair, and the dead silent Threlen reached for her arm to assist her, “My clan has arrived, and we must see our dead off. You’ll have to excuse me.”

Her guests all stood and said their respects before leaving the room...except for the Lady Volant. She sat in the chair comfortably, and it occurred to Elain that she was waiting for everyone else to leave. A careful glance of the woman’s eyes confirmed her suspicions.

“I’ll meet you in the Grand Hall with Deshanna so we can prepare. I need to apply a tincture to my wound again,” she lied to Threlen, urging him to leave. He did so without question, and she closed the door leading into the antechamber behind him. 

Elain returned to the high back chair opposite of Lady Volant and eased herself back into it, “I see there is more.”

Lady Volant steepled her fingers and smiled, “Indeed there is. It has nothing to do with the Inquisition’s plans or the Free Army, but is tantalizing none the less.”

“Go on.”

She gave a soft chuckle, “Oh my dear Lady Maiden! This particular piece of information is far too valuable to far too many people to give it away for free. My family did not get to where they are by giving everything of value to charity, as you might have guessed.”

Elain leaned back into the chair, propped her elbow on the armrest, and set her chin in her palm, “Is this information worthwhile?”

“I should say so. One that your Clan would pay any price for.”

“And what price are you asking, Lady Volant?” she asked her bluntly. There was no use dancing around the negotiations. Elain was far too busy today to play the nobles’ games.

“My family has attempted to get a foothold into Wycome for nearly a decade. The trade here is incredibly profitable, and one that could set us up for several generations to come. All I ask is your word that you will assist in this endeavor.”

“What makes you think I have any say over trade contracts the merchants of the city hold?” she questioned her.

“I do not think you have any say in the moment, or at least, not a say that will net me any permanent ground. But that does not mean it will stay that way,” she stood up from her seat and paced in front of the walnut table that stood between them, “If my intuition is correct, there will be big changes coming to Wycome --bigger than we’ve seen in an age-- and I have a feeling you and your clan will be part of it. All I ask is for a promise that if the tides change, if it comes within your power, you will repay what is owed.”

Elain stared at the woman for a moment, weighing her options. She knew the Lady was not wrong; change was coming to Wycome, and she had no intention to sit on the sides and watch it fly by her. Her hands would help shape the clay that would rebuild the city, and the Inquisition informant had correctly assumed that. If she refused her deal, there would be nothing lost but information. If she took the deal though, she stood to gain as much as House DesJardins. 

Sar’een had entrusted her, given her the authority to do this. She would not let it slip through her fingers.

“You have my word,” Elain agreed, “If fate should allow it, I will work to help your family get a foothold into the city.”

Lady Volant smiled widely at her. A true smile this time, full of brightness,”It is always so wonderful to find the best solution to a problem, yes? And you have perhaps solved many of my family’s problems.”

“Your family’s problems are none of my concern. This is a business transaction,” Elain cut her off, “Now that the terms are agreed upon, I expect the information.”

Her smile turned to a laugh, “It is wonderful to find those who understand the nature of this business as well, Lady Maiden. But I suppose people are the same everywhere, no? Even the Dalish have to play the game.”

Elain tapped her finger impatiently, urging her to continue.

“It has come to my attention that your clan has run into trouble with a dwarf,” she began, the smile still curling her thin lips, “Or rather, your clan has endured near constant meddling from a dwarf. One who targets Free Marcher clans to pick off elves to sell into slavery in Tevinter, yes?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “Now get to the point.”

“Of course, Lady Maiden!” she exclaimed mockingly, “I know that this dwarf is named Lokka, and that Lokka is not only wanted by your clan, but nearly every city in Antiva, the Free Marches, and parts of Rivain and Nevarra. The bounty on his head is quite high.”

“Yes.”

“If someone were to know the location of this dwarf, they could become very wealthy, very quickly. And, my Lady Maiden, I find myself in a position where getting more wealthy in this sort of manner is not nearly as challenging as setting up trade contracts in Wycome.”

Elain leaned forward and gripped her armrests, “You know where Lokka is.”

She nodded, “I do. He is being held with other merchants and nobles in the palace’s cells. He has given them all bribes and contracts for their silence, and they are not interested in cooperating with your people. They won’t say a word about Ser Lokka. But I have no such deal with the scum. I will point out who he is, and you may do what you feel is most fitting to him.”

Elain’s heart raced in her chest in excitement. There couldn’t have been a more serendipitous thing to happen to her when she needed all the aid she could get. First, Sar’een’s entrusting her with Wycome’s recovery, and now, the enemy that has evaded her people for nearly a decade. She wanted to squeal in her delight.

Instead, she returned Lady Volant’s grin, “This was well worth the price, My Lady. Thank you.”

“And thank you for remembering your debt. I will look forward to doing business with you.”

The newly formed business partners shook on their agreement, smiles on their faces, and joy in at least one of their hearts. The day would be long, the weeks of waiting for Sar’een would be longer, but for the first time since her pregnancy, Elain felt that things were finally going her way.

“Yeah speaking of a debt…”

A voice startled both the women out of the their conversation, and at a quick glance, Elain was surprised to see Rin standing near the door. 

“When exactly am I going to get paid for all of this, Lady Volcano?”

\---

“And who’s that?” Yemet yelled over the loud drums and music of the Great Hall in the Nacre Palace. He was pointing down the table, questioning Revas non-stop about the people and roles of the clan. He wanted to know everything and anything. Who did what, who was kissing who, who was shunning who. Revas didn’t know if it was because he was a thief and needed to assess his surroundings, or if he was genuinely curious about the inner workings of his clan. Honestly, he could give a fuck either way.

He was drunk.

The beautiful hazy, light headed, buzzing tingly kind of drunk. The kind that made him happy, loose, and content with everything in the world. His ears were warm, his cheeks were warm, and his chest was warmest. It curled and burrowed inside of him, filling him with mirth and excitement.

Despite the solemn funeral rites in the afternoon, and despite the excruciatingly formal debriefing of the Council early in the evening, there was a levity in that evening. A breath of relief finally released after all the fighting, all the exhaustion, all the devastation. The clan’s musicians and some city elf bards played loud, merry music, filling the hall with laughter and dancing. The Duke’s private cellar of wine flowed, and they celebrated the lives of the dead as much as their own triumphs. It was a time for kinship and joy, and Revas was taking advantage of every second.

“That’s the Warlord of our clan,” Revas answered Yemet, “He’s over there with Threlen, the Warlord of the Diceni.”

“Do all the Warlords know each other and hang out like that?” 

Revas looked to Twig on his left side, then back to Yemet, “Yeah, I guess they do.”

“We all kind of know each other,” Twig explained, “There’s only so many Dalish in the world, and we’ve got to help each other survive. So the leaders all work together, know each other, are related to each other, blah blah, that whole mess.”

“Funny you guys call them Warlords when you don’t have an army,” Yemet pointed out before taking a swig of his drink.

“Throwback from the Dales,” Revas said, before gulping down his own wine, “Lots of our stuff is just leftovers from the Dales. _‘Keepers of the Lost Lore’_ and all that bullshit.”

“You don’t believe it?” the thief prodded him. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m a proud Dalish. My freedom is worth more to me than all the fancy palaces and wine in the world,” he said, “But I don’t know. Not everything is worth saving. Some stuff should stay buried and gone.”

“Now you’re sounding like Paeris!” Twig teased him, nudging him with his shoulder. Revas shook his head.

“Nah. I’m not interested in creating a new elven epoch or whatever the fuck he has cooking up,” he lowered his voice, knowing even when he was drunk that the Keeper of the Diceni had a way of finding things out, “But some traditions just don’t make sense anymore. We’ve changed since the Dales. Since Arlathan. Time to let go and move on.”

Yemet lifted his mug, “Praise to that!” 

Revas tipped his mug against the thief’s in toast, then downed the rest of the wine inside. It was dry, the driest he’d ever tasted. Nothing like that too-sweet swill he and the hunter’s would acquire in bandit raids. This nectar bit his throat, made his ears burn, and it was delicious. 

“So what about your mages? They always Keepers?” Yemet prodded them for more answers as he refilled his mug. Revas held his out in front of him to get his topped off as well.

“Pretty much. Well, not the Hand. He’s a scion, not a Keeper,” Twig replied to him this time, slurring his words in his own inebriation.

“What’s the difference?”

He was sure Twig would give a proper explanation of what a scion was, what roles mages played among the Dalish, why they distinguish the two, but Revas was in no mood for it anymore. The wine was lighting a fire in his belly, and the warm glow of the candelabra and fireplaces of the Great Hall made it spread to his heart too. The music made his head spin, and he could feel his pulse flowing all through him. He felt good. Better than he had in a long time. 

As Twig answered Yemet’s seemingly unending questions, Revas let his gaze wander around the room. There was dancing and laughing in the center of the hall. Some hunters, some hearthworkers, and even some city elves. They twirled and kicked their feet and spun their partners around with flourishes as a celebratory dirge played, and his blood seemed to pump in time with the song. Arthwyn danced with his overjoyed wife, Sorn did side steps as his daughter bounced up and down excitedly, and even his mother had joined in. 

Not everyone was there dancing, of course. Vhannas sat near the front of the hall, nursing his mug and picking at his dinner as he carried on quiet conversations with merchants and artisans alike. Den and Threlen also spoke quietly and seriously, though a bottle of wine still sat squarely in Clan Lavellan’s Warlord’s hand. Old Bida sat alone, always watching, always judging. The guild members and other city elves mingled and conversed with hunters, humans meandered in and out of the Hall, and the entire air smelled of smoke and wine and empty promises and new beginnings. Revas inhaled it deeply.

His eyes finally found the person his heart had secretly been seeking out, and his breath nearly caught in his throat when he did. She sat before one of the braziers, reclining lazily on a plush velvet couch, her entire being seeming to glow in the surprising coziness of the Great Hall. She chatted happily with Sal and another human merchant, gesturing her hands as she no doubt explained some plan she had in motion, smiling at them when she wanted to drive a point home. That smile was bright, luminescent, glittering, spreading from one corner of her face to another. He could nearly feel it in his chest; a tight constricting around his heart, threatening to stop his breath. 

Revas was suddenly jealous of Sal and his acquaintance. Jealous that they were given her smile, her attention, her sweet conversation. Jealous that it wasn’t him listening in rapt awe as she nestled herself in his mind and his gut, turning and twisting it with her easy grace and sensuality. It should be him earning her glances and soft laughs. He wanted them so badly.

“Rev, are you listening?” Twig snapped him out of his haze, and he shook his head abruptly. 

“What?” 

Yemet let out a bark of laughter, “Oh Maker, he is _gone_!”

His friend gave the thief knowing glances, pointing across the room to where Elain was seated, “I told you. Only eyes for her.”

_Only for her._ He downed the rest of the wine in his mug and pushed off the table, ignoring Yemet and Twig’s teasing laughter. He walked around the tables, around the dancers, and it wasn’t long before any laughter was drowned out by the cacophony of noises in the hall. They could laugh all they wanted anyways. He still wouldn’t be deterred. Revas focused on her as if he was on a hunt, single-minded and determined, and approached her with a sense of purpose rising in his mind. 

When she caught sight of him on his hunt, she smiled up at him, her lips gently curving, her eyes looking from under heavy lids, her chest heaving subtly in a sigh. She had wanted to see him. It was relief on her face. 

“Does my Banal’ras need me?” she asked him lightly, the teasing tone in her voice only noticed by him. Her little fanfare she did for his sake were always so nondescript, like there were still secrets they could share, secrets only they knew. His cheeks flushed at the thought. 

Revas kneeled next to her couch, taking her hand in his, drawing it to his lips, and placing a soft kiss on her waiting knuckles, “The Banal’ras always needs his Maiden.”

“Hmm…” she laughed quietly, barely audible over the noise in the hall, “Then the Maiden is always here to listen to his requests.”

He looked towards Sal and his companion, then back at her, “I would like to request a dance.”

She sat up suddenly, swinging her legs gracefully over the side of the cough, laughing loudly this time, “You hate dancing!”

“And?”

“And you look drunk,” she pointed out as she ran a fingertip along the shell of his ear. 

“And…?”

She shook her head in resignation, “Are you sure?”

He grinned up at her, “Positive.”

Revas swept her up from her seat as she briefly excused herself from her conversation, and he led her to the hard marble floors of the center of the hall, laughing along with her at the absurdity of it all. He rarely danced. She was not keen on public displays. And yet here they were, his hand taking hers, his arm wrapping around her waist, and his heart beating to the strum of the string instruments that played. 

The music was not as fast as it had been earlier in the night, but still not slow either. Elain led him, her footwork leading him to where he needed to go. He tried to hold her close, but she spun away, her skirts skimming the floor as she did. It was a sign to him to give chase, and he pulled her back in, watching as she spun as tightly as a top towards his chest. Revas dipped her down then, slowly, carefully, and her legs bent and curved around him, using his body to balance herself. 

He was never a dancer, but even so far along in her pregnancy, Elain was all light and grace in her dance, radiating a beauty that was more Sylaise than Andruil; all heat and fire. Whatever insecurities he had about his own ability was more than made up for in her skill.

“You’re beautiful,” he confessed to her as she pressed her back against his chest and rose her arms in adulation to the sky. She giggled fetchingly and turned to face him, pivoting off the heels of her feet.

“I know,” she said lowly, her voice full of honey as she drew her hands down his shoulders. 

The music began to change, no longer a string heavy ensemble, but a hard beat of a drum taking the forefront. He took her hand in his and rose it in the air, level with their eyes, and began to circle around her in tune with the drums. He stomped his feet at each _thump_ , and she did the same, but their eyes stayed focused on either other, only their clasped hands interfering with their sight. They switched directions of their circling and their hands at the pivotal points in the song --an old Dalish ballad they both loved-- and he forgot for a time why he ever hated dancing. Touching her, even as innocently as in dance, was worth it all. 

“I mean it,” he said as his heart melted when her hair shone in the light, and her eyes spoke of the unspoken things between them, “You’re beautiful. Every part of you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly as her steps brought her even closer to him, making her lean her head back and expose her neck. He leaned into her and kissed her vulnerable throat tenderly, though it felt insufficient. Every inch of her deserved focused praise. 

Elain slowly pulled her head back forward and pressed her forehead against his, her hand never leaving the clutches of his. She intertwined their fingers, gripping him tightly, and her nose brushed against his in their closeness. 

“Will you still think I’m beautiful when I have our child?” she all but purred to him, sending shivers down his spine.

“Even more beautiful.” 

Her hand snaked up his back as they moved their feet to the drums.

“Are you sure?”

He pressed his lips against hers, gently, barely more than a wisp of a kiss, but it expressed what he felt better than his words ever could, “I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”

Her lips curved into a smile underneath his, and her eyelids fluttered, making her lashes tickle his skin, sending an electric tingling through him. It was intoxicating. Elain was better than any victory in battle. Better than any wine. Better than any defeat over a foe. He was overcome with how much this meant to him, what she meant to him. She was his all, and he wanted it to stay like this between them forever. 

“ _Marry me_ ,” he whispered into her lips before letting his entire mouth fall over hers. Hope had invaded his heart, and love coursed through him at the sight of her. He wanted nothing more in that moment than for her to feel the same.

But she drew away.

Her hand dropped his and settled at her side, the flush of dark pink in her cheeks disappeared, and the adoration in her eyes gave way to coldness. His heart dropped in his chest at the sight. 

“Revas…” she started, and he hoped desperately he could stop her.

“I love you, Peach. You’re everything to me. I would follow you to the ends of the Fade, if you asked. You know that.”

“I do but..” she shook her head slowly, backing away, but he reached out and grabbed her arms. 

“But what?” his heart raced, his mind raced, his blood raced through his body. It flowed like a river, washing his soul away. 

“Revas, you know what,” her voice was no longer honey, no longer sweet. Her walls had gone back up, and she was the Maiden once more, “My brother is here. My title is on the line. I can’t let sentimentality cloud my judgment. I love you too, and a marriage doesn’t change that. But it can change my status among the clans.”

He furrowed his brow and frowned in disbelief, in pain. Unwanted tears welled in his eyes, and try as he might, he could not stop them. Elain noticed them too, and brought her hand to his jaw, cradling it under her palm.

“Can’t what we have now...can’t this just be enough?” she asked him, as if it was already enough. As if he hadn’t spent years pining away for something that was just out of reach. As if he was still her animal that needed to be placated, but never understood. He grasped her wrist, and pulled her hand away from him. 

“No, it can’t,” the tears fell down his cheeks, and his face burned in embarrassment, “Because it’s _me_ that can never be enough for you. Us being together, us finally being free, you and me having a family, having a life, that isn’t enough either. The only thing that will _ever_ be enough for you is the Mantle.”

She stared at him, pain written plainly in the steel gray of her eyes, but no tears made them glisten. There were no regrets to be found there. And no denials. He hated being right. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting your evening, Maiden,” he admitted his defeat, unable to hide his hurt, his devastation. 

Revas turned and walked away from Elain, knowing the Mantle would always come first, and with each step that distanced himself from her, his heart broke a little more. 

\---

It was many hours later and many wine bottles later before Revas stumbled into the private quarters in guest wing of the Nacre Palace he had taken up sleeping in. _She_ had taken up sleeping there as well, but he doubted he’d see her again tonight. His rejection had been so thorough, so disheartening, he didn’t know if he could face her if she did. Elain would know that as well, and would feel some deluded sense of pity and try to spare him. 

He spit on the elaborate woven rug on the floor of the decadent room in his disgust. She thought he was pitiful, and he was pitiful, and it threatened to consume him if he let it. He stumbled through the dark antechamber leading to the bedroom, nearly tripping on a table, or a chair, or his own feet, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. All were just an obstacle keeping him from the bliss of a dead, dreamless sleep, where he could forget the taste of peaches on her lips in the summer and her hair black fanned out against the dried grasses of the plains that looked like spun gold. 

Gods, he needed to forget. 

But as he pushed open the door to the inner chambers, he found the brazier inside had been lit, though low, casting haunting shadows on the walls. Shadows of past mistakes, past regrets, past loss. Shadows like him. A room full of the Banal’ras.

“So you finally return.”

Near the brazier on the east wall of the room, two figures sat in the leather chairs looking over the dancing fire, their faces dark and backlit, but still distinguishable, even in his drunken state.

“So I do,” his words were heavy and slurred, “To what do I owe the pleasure of _two_ Warlords stopping in for a late visit?”

He stumbled and fell into the nearby bed, earning an exasperated sigh from Either Threlen or Den, he couldn’t tell. At the time, he didn’t really give a shit either. He stared up at the ceiling from his spot on the soft cushions and saw the Shadows dancing there too. They all looked like him. 

“We were hoping you’d be more sober for this,” Threlen said disapprovingly from his spot in his chair, “It’s unbecoming of your position to allow yourself to get like this.”

“Fuck off,” he groaned as he put his palm over his eyes. He was tired of seeing Shadows. 

“Watch your mouth with me, Revas. You may serve the Maiden, but you are not above reproach,” Threlen warned him darkly, “Or above punishment. I will let this indiscretion go, but you would do well to listen.”

“Just...keep quiet for a minute kid,” Den cut in, trying to ground Threlen’s threats, “We need to talk about something important. Something that could help you.”

“Fine, talk. But make it quick. I need to sleep this off.”

Den gave a deep sigh at him, “I know you do. You’re a gods damned mess.”

Revas closed his eyes, but said no more. He just wanted them to reprimand him or do whatever they needed to do so he could be alone. He hated feeling like this.

“You know Keeper Paeris is here. You know he is monitoring the Maiden’s every move,” Threlen started, “It should come as no surprise that he is retaining everything she does here to see what can be used against her in the High Council that will be called. He has made it apparent to some of my sources that he wants to see your Maiden fail.”

“Tell me something I didn’t know.”

“Everything I will say is what you should know,” the Warlord chided him, “But it’s information you have done nothing with yet. Paeris has a vested interest in seeing Elain dethroned, so to speak, and in his path, he has given you very little regard, if any at all. He thinks of you as nothing more than a piece of livestock being led by the Maiden to do her dirty work. A brute force that is easily routed, in his mind.”

Revas winced at the assessment. 

“But my Keeper has always underestimated hunters and the work they do. He sees them as simple tools, where we know otherwise,” he pressed on, “Your Warlord knows this as well, and has seen what you are capable of.”

“It’s a lot, Revas. You pulled off an uprising here,” Den added in, “Not to mention the Minanter Stand.”

“But my son-in-law doesn’t see the work that goes behind battle. Like your Maiden, he’s content to move the pieces and let others enact his will with little regard to their well-being. It’s plain to see you have been put in a similar position.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Revas snapped at him, sitting up in the bed, “You think I don’t know that I’ve been used?”

“I think you know it all too well,” Threlen answered him plainly, “And I think it is a complete waste of your potential. So we have come to you with a proposition.”

He looked between the two Warlords; Threlen stared back at him with his good eye, while Den stared at the floor, his shoulders slumped, “What is it?”

Threlen took a deep breath, “Despite my dear friend’s work and intentions, it is clear that Den’s injury has left him permanently hobbled. Even if he were to recover more use out of his limbs, his strength has become fleeting. He is no longer in any position to actively lead the hunters of Lavellan in the field.”

“No, Den will be fine--”

“Stop Rev,” Den lifted his hand in the air, “I won’t be. Just listen to him.”

Revas felt bile climbing the back of his throat in his fear at the proposition, but he swallowed it deeply. 

“Our proposition is this: Den will retire and step down from an active role in the clan, and in doing so, pave the way for you to ascend as Warlord of Lavellan.”

The room fell silent for a few moments as Revas attempted to gather his thoughts. The wine had made them laborious and hazy, but he had to at least try to think clearly. This was a no light matter. Den stepping down of his own will meant a shake up on the Council, meant an opening for power plays, meant a reach for Elain to scoop up more prestige, and…..and it meant he could fight back. 

And that was what stayed with him. It was obvious to him that Elain’s protection would only reach so far. She would at try to help him for her affection and for their child, but if it came between him and the Mantle, he was afraid that he knew what the answer would be. But if he was the Warlord, nothing she could do or say would have as much weight without his approval. He could finally force her to address issues she had let stagnant, and as a failsafe, had a way to protect himself in the event that she would not. 

He thought about his unborn child, about his life after his dad died. He hated it. Hated him always wondering why, always questioning what Heliwr would do, second guessing himself when compared to his father. Revas did not want that to happen to his own child. He need to be there, and if Elain couldn’t promise that to him, he would have to find his own way. 

“I accept.”

A murmur of surprise escaped one of the Warlords, but it was Threlen who spoke, “That...that was a quick decision, Banal’ras. Are you sure you don’t want to think on this more?”

“No,” he said, his voice level and now sober, “But I suppose you’ll make me. I also assume you have some sort of price in mind for your support.”

“I knew there was more to you than your Council and Maiden allowed,“ in a truly shocking display, Threlen’s mouth split into a wide grin, “Yes, there is a price. But one that I don’t think you’ll find unreasonable. Paeris has no concern for the ongoing support and training of hunters beyond what is necessary for the most basic protections. You and I both know after the Minanter Stand and the battle here that basic training is not enough.”

Revas nodded his agreement.

“I want only your word that in the position of Warlord, you will begin training Lavellan in earnest as a standing army instead of the militia force they are now,” he leaned back in his chair, “The Maiden would rather sow her seeds in fields like her brother’s, but we understand how well that has worked out for the Dalish as of late.”

“We do,” he replied. His head was beginning to clear, and the wine sickness spread to his stomach instead. 

“Good. I am glad we are in agreement,” the Warlord stood from his chair now and motioned to Den to do the same, “Sleep on this information. Mull it over for a few days to at least say you did. There is urgency, but no emergency yet. Things may change when your child arrives, though.”

They walked past his perch on the soft bed, intending to let him get the rest he needed, no doubt, but Revas still reached out and grabbed Den’s arm as he limped behind his old friend.

“Are you okay with this?” his concern for the man he had served under in his youth struck him suddenly. Den looked down on him, one eye now always half closed and unfocused, one side of his mouth now always down turned and limp.

“No,” he said plainly, sadly even, “But there’s no choice. The hunters can’t follow an old, broken man past his prime, and that’s exactly what I am.”

“Den…”

“Get some sleep, Revas. The battle’s over, but the war has only just begun.”

The pair left his room and shut the door behind them, leaving Revas with the waning fire and the guilt of lost hunter on his shoulders. He was still not entirely sober, and in that, he couldn’t help but marvel how quickly things could change. A year ago he was still serving Elain blindly, daring not put his hopes in anything but the moments he could snatch away with her. And now...now the world had turned upside down. It was starting to weigh his soul down. 

He laid his head back on the goose down stuffed pillow, closing his eyes and pretending the Shadows on the walls were figments of his imagination, inviting that dreamless sleep to come. Slumber did overtake him eventually, but he still dreamt. Dreamt of him sitting in Council, the armor of the Warlord sitting heavily on his shoulders, and Elain staring at him from across the hearthfire, her Mantle mirroring his armor, and their child cradled in her arms.

 

Revas tried to reach out to them, to take his child in his own arms, but he fell into the fire instead.


	40. Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een is reminded of what she's fighting for; cracks begin to form in Elain's foundation

Sar’een was not a cruel person. It was not in her nature. Where others would feel vindictive, pained, and even cold, Sar’een always tried to find the good in the worst of things. She did not want to witness suffering or mourning, nor did she want to know that she had been even remotely involved in cruelty. She was taught to be kind and gracious by her father, to be thoughtful and empathetic by her mother, and to be patient by her mentor. 

It wasn’t always easy. There were times that it seemed the world was pushing her towards being angry, edging her towards lashing out against all the awful things being committed in the name of authority. But even then she didn’t have it in her to fight back against the source. Her childhood had been full of teasing and goading by Revas and his friends. Things she misconstrued as them liking her, only to find that she was merely a joke. _That_ _Dor’len, she doesn’t even know that we’re laughing at her!_

If a broken heart hadn’t made her cruel, then neither had a diminished spirit. Time spent away from her home, her family, and the only life she had known had taken its toll on her, but she prevailed, bruised and hardened, but still facing the new challenges this extraordinary set of circumstances thrust upon her with no meanness in her heart. It could be taken as a point of pride, but Sar’een was not prideful either. She was, as always, the kind but reluctant leader, the one who had never made a choice in her life without modeling her decision off what her mentor would do. Even in the Inquisition, that stayed with her. It wasn’t until recently that she began to break away from the world casting fate upon her and move towards controlling her fate for the optimal result. Yet, even in doing that, she put others in need before her own personal goals.

So it was distressing to Sar’een why she felt nothing at all when she let the Grand Duchess Florianne assassinate an Empress.

She had uncovered all the plots, with Briala’s help, dispatched the remaining Venatori agents, and even had enough time to dance and mingle with the Royal Court of Orlais, ingratiating herself so that she would be seen as one of them. It even worked. The whispers of disbelief and disgust slowly turned delight over the course of the evening, thanks to her and Vivienne’s efforts. With all the evidence in her hands and the court’s approval, Sar’een had everything she need to not only stop Florianne, but to do so in a way that would laud her as a master player in The Game. 

But Celene’s blood now pooled on the marble floors of her palace, the life disappeared from her eyes, and that sneering mouth gone slack forever. Sar’een could’ve stopped it. She could’ve intervened in time, could’ve easily ended the plot right then, but instead, she watched quietly as the shining blade of the knife slipped into the Empress’ back. Her stomach clenched at the anticipation of regret, but it didn’t come, and that was more upsetting to her than any death. 

This wasn’t what she was like. This isn’t how she is supposed to be. She would never derive enjoyment from another’s pain, and yet here she was, slashing at the assassin with her spirit blade, sweat on her brow, finding herself entirely numb to all the noble blood spilled this night.

Florianne fell, of course. She fought well, but Sar’een had been fighting constantly for over a year now. It seemed to be all she knew anymore. The stains of blood on the ground, the open wounds spilling life from bodies, her own bloodstained face reflecting in the river as she tried to wash away the vestigial reminders of battle afterwards. Iron Bull told her that they never truly get washed away. Now, she believed him. 

It never washed away. It just built up layer after invisible layer, until there is a shell of a new person surrounding the one you were before. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t feel anything when she saw the bodies of the two most powerful women in Orlais lying on the cold floors of this gilded crypt. By her actions, her decisions, her….cruelty, they were both dead. It could’ve been avoided, and she  _ chose _ not to.

“Such a pity,” Vivienne said sadly next to her as the Winter Palace’s guards scurried to and fro, trying to assess the situation and keep the court calm, “Florianne never was as good at the Game as she liked to believe, but this is beyond what I thought she was capable of pulling off. And with the Empress dead now….”

The First Enchanter sucked in a deep breath, then let out an equally deep sigh, “Well, what’s done is done, my dear. Now we must pick up the pieces.”

“I’m sorry,” Sar’een apologized to her, though she wasn’t remorseful. Vivienne looked at her shrewdly, her lips drawn tight and her left eyebrow slightly raised. It didn’t take a master player to realize that she didn’t believe Sar’een was remorseful either.

“Now isn’t the time for regrets, Inquisitor. The whole of Orlais has eyes upon you now,” she set a hand on Sar’een’s shoulder then leaned in close to her ear to whisper, “What you do now will decide the fate of their future. I would not recommend letting it go to waste.”

She nodded her head in understanding. Vivienne never needed to be explicit with her. Sar’een had known her long enough now that she understood the weight of actions the First Enchanter put into her words, and this was nothing short of a call to action. What Sar’een felt in the moment was irrelevant. There were more important matters to attend to.

Matters she had been sowing for months, she realized. It did not start in the Winter Palace, nor would it end here, but the moment would define how she moved forward. 

She took her leave of her companions as they gave statements and debriefings to Cullen and the Inquisition soldiers as they secured the palace, moving away from the blood-tainted gardens and into the blood-tainted ballroom, where not an hour before, she let a murder occur. Sar’een shut her eyes tightly, willing those thoughts to leave her. She had to focus. This was bigger than her. 

The ballroom was quieter than before, the music gone and the entertained chuckles now turned to fretful and frightened whispers. The masks were no longer harrowing though; instead of casting long shadows that threatened to eat her alive, she could only see the scared eyes behind them. The porcelain and jewels and glass all melted away, dripping down in her mind like wet paint, and left quivering mouths and shifting gazes in their wake. This was no longer the frightening masquerade she saw earlier in the evening. This was the Game with the pieces scattered across the floor, too in shock to climb back onto the board and continue their calculated moves. 

It wouldn’t last long. She needed to use that to her advantage. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Sar’een knew what it meant if Celene died, but she still nearly shuddered at the sound of Grand Duke Gaspard’s voice. She looked to see him standing near the balcony overlooking the courtyard where she had killed his sister, but the mask still stood strong on the Duke’s face. If he mourned Florianne, he didn’t show it.

“We need to have...a discussion,” he motioned for her to follow him to the balcony itself, outside the suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom. He did not wait for her to agree, and the sound of the soles of his boots hitting the marble floor seemed to resonate throughout the entire palace. She did not want to be alone with him, to talk to him, but it was another thing she had no choice in. Her saving grace --the evidence handed to her and collected by her-- was still safely tucked away in the breast pocket of her blood-soaked uniform, waiting eagerly to be used for her plans. She swallowed deeply, knowing the time to set them into full swing would be coming soon.

“It’s a terrible shame about Florianne, you know,” he spoke to her in a hushed voice as they found solitude on the balcony. Him leaning against the stone ledge, her pressing her back against a pillar, neither one trusting the other enough to get too close, “I could never have guessed she’d be capable of such a thing.”

“Never?” she asked him innocently, though she felt disgusted. Even now he was playing the Game.

“Never,” he lied, “Florianne was not the best player, but to see her greed and ambition consume her like this? Far enough to destroy everything she once loved? Unthinkable. This Corypheus must be stopped.”

A statement distancing himself from his sister, and reaffirming that they shared a goal. Sar’een crossed her arms over her chest, unimpressed with the blatant display. He already thought he had won.

“Many people are going to assume that you orchestrated this,” she said bluntly, “That you plotted with Florianne to get Celene out of the way to take the throne. They will think that you sacrificed your own sister to be Emperor.”

“Many people would be wrong then. Florianne and I were never close, and Celene was our cousin. I may finding myself having to play the Game, but as a Chevalier, I still follow a code.”

He pushed off the balcony ledge and squared his shoulders, standing at a military attention, “And despite what you may think, I never wanted the Empress dead. This is a tragedy, and if the blame can be placed anywhere, it’s on  _ your _ head for failing to act.”

Sar’een’s eyes widened at the accusation, fully aware he was still playing, still making moves across the board, but entirely caught off guard by him pointing out what was making her feel so vulnerable in the moment. She composed herself quickly, also knowing that he would take full advantage of any weakness she displayed. The almost imperceptible relaxing of the muscles in his neck confirmed that he saw her misstep.

“Oh Gaspard. Always willing to blame others for what you yourself have done. Are all chevaliers so predictable?”

Gaspard’s eyes narrowed behind his mask as Briala joined them in their discussion, and Sar’een tried her best not to show her relief. She was hoping ambassador would show up; dealing with Gaspard alone was not ideal.

“So the elusive Ambassador makes herself known,” Gaspard said between thin lips and an undoubted sneer, hidden by porcelain and paint, “And continues to make treasonous accusations in my presence…”

Briala interrupted his speech with a soft chuckle. It was sweet and melodious, worthy of a bard, “Oh Gaspard! They are only treasonous if they are not true. And we both know deep this runs. The blood on your hands is no less red than any other’s.”

“You have nothing,” he called her bluff. 

“I have something,” Sar’een cut in, taking the opportunity to assert herself. She reached into the breast pocket of her uniform and pulled out the incriminating documents, “Orders, signed by your hand, directing the mercenaries you hired and snuck into the palace to stand ready for you to lead a coup against the Empress.”

Briala smiled sweetly, “And it isn’t such a leap to believe that Florianne was part of your plans, but you let her take the fall so that you could take the throne with as little backlash against you as possible. After all, it is difficult funding war against a sovereign nation like Ferelden. There might be some families who frown upon regicide.”

“I did not kill Celene,” he responded through gritted teeth.

“Oh no?” Briala closed the space between them, strolling up to the Grand Duke as if he were any other mark, “Will the Des Jardins believe that if they see this evidence?” she nodded towards the parchment Sar’een held in or hand, “Will Duke Bastien de Ghislain? I’m sure Laurent will have much to say on his father’s behalf on The Council of Heralds. Madame de Fer will make sure of that. Not to mention Lady Mantillon! Did you know her first husband died in the war in Ferelden? I’m sure the Dowager will have a very strong on your bombastic war plans.”

“Enough,” he raised his gloved hand in the air to stop her, “You’ve made your point, _ Ambassador.  _ But I wasn’t the only one making moves across the board this evening; the Inquisitor is still not absolved of her inaction.”

“And who says I didn’t act?” Sar’een pressed him, but was uncomfortable with the lie, “I tried my best. It just wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.”

He snorted at her apology, “ _ Sorry _ seems insufficient for the monumental failure tonight.” He sighed and looked between her and Briala, “On all our parts, I suppose. I am no fool; I can see when I have been outplayed. You know very well Laurent De Ghislain and The Dowager will not overlook my actions, as do I. But I also know that with that information, it was within your power to stop Florianne.”

Neither one of them responded to the Grand Duke’s assessment. They couldn’t. Any affirmation would make them complicit in regicide as well.

“Very well,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “Without your aid --and your silence-- I cannot ascend as rightful Emperor to the country I love above all else. And without _ my  _ silence and my cooperation, you cannot count on the Empire to help defeat this Corypheus. I know this will come with a cost...for the both of us. The question is, what is it, and are you willing to pay?”

“That’s rich, Gaspard. To think that you have anything to hold over my or the Inquisition’s head,” Briala laughed in his face, “Oh no, not at all. The Inquisitor has been thorough in cultivating her alliances, practicing diplomacy, getting the crown of Ferelden behind her, as well as the throne of Nevarra. She even reaches as far as Tevinter. Your army is diminished after a civil war you started, your county is in shambles from venatori and red templar operations, and the Chantry has all but given up on the Empire and thrown their lot in with Inquisitor Lavellan. I believe you have no ground to stand on.”

Gaspard shot a look of malice towards Sar’een, and she stared him down as he did so. A year ago she may have cowered, but a year ago she hadn’t seen all the horrors this world could inflict on her kind. She kept her chin lifted and her eyes focused. 

The Grand Duke broke first, looking away towards the ballroom before letting his gaze travel upwards. When he at last set his eyes back on the two elves, he muttered curses under his breath.

“What do you want?”

It was finally Sar’een’s turn to smile, “Do you remember when I arrived and you boasted of the safety of the alienage in Verchiel?”

He nodded silently.

“I will have my new Elven Ambassador, Briala, examine the condition of the alienage there to confirm your gentle rule over the elves. If the standard of living there is good, then I’d like that to expand to all alienages in Orlais. And if it is not...well, Emperor Gaspard, I hear Val Royeux’s alienage is the largest in Thedas. That is as good a place to start as any in improving the living conditions of my people.”

Gaspard grimaced, “You must be joking…”

“I am dead serious. Halamshiral was a tragedy. Hundreds of lives lost. Innocent lives. Lives that were already subjugated to inhumane treatment. I will not see it happen again, and I  _ will  _ see that my people are given the proper restitutions for the suffering they endured at your predecessor’s hands. If you can’t do it, then I will find a ruler that will.”

“It’s not so easy as finding someone else, Inquisitor,” he argued sharply.

Sar’een shrugged, “It was easy enough for you.”

He frowned deeply at the remark, and pounded his fist on the stone railing of the balcony in anger. Sar’een was careful not to show the passing fear she felt.

“Fine! You shall see how little this Empire will suffer uplifting the elves,” he sneered at her, “And when there is nothing left to fight your war, then the death of Orlais will be on your head just as much as the death of its Empress.”

“We’ll see,” she said softly as the new Emperor stomped away, back into the ballroom to no doubt give his commencement speech. She was left alone with Briala as the music began to play again, and order established itself in the Winter Palace.

“He will not cooperate for long; I hope you know that,” Briala said quietly next to her.

“I know.”

“You have a plan to deal with him?” her new ambassador asked.

“Yes, but it’s still too early to divulge it. Everything is in place, but I have to wait for my turn to come and make my move.”

Briala’s eyebrows rose in surprise, clearly intrigued, then she smiled at her; a real one this time that made her cheeks dimple, “Know that when your.... _ our _ turn comes, I am at your disposal. The elves have lived in squalor and fear for long enough.”

“Yes,” was all she could say. Briala understood, able to read her face and voice as easily as a book, and inclined her head.

“Then I will leave you to it. I shall arrange for an Eluvian to be transported to Skyhold, with your permission. Celene had an ‘ _ arcane advisor _ ’ on her staff in possession of one that Gaspard will probably want to offload. I’m sure you’d like it seen in elven hands instead.”

Sar’een nodded her affirmation.

“Good. I’ll pull some strings and see if Gaspard will transfer her to Skyhold then. I leave the confiscation of artifacts of the Elvhenan up to the Dalish Inquisitor,” Briala said with a wink before disappearing back down over the balcony rail and into the gardens. Sar’een watched her melt into the shadows as the palace guards still attempted the secure the area, none the wiser to the Ambassador’s presence. She would be a valuable asset; if only the cost hadn’t been so high.

Sar’een stood on that balcony alone for what seemed like forever, planning and assuring herself that everything would work out. Her thoughts traveled to Paeris and his careful goals and long-term plays. He never got flustered, never got caught up in anyone else’s schemes. The Keeper was always the one pulling the strings, whether the puppets knew it or not. It was part of him she didn’t like; a cold reminder that her mentor and chosen brother had darkness in him, simmering below the surface of the benevolent hahren. She wanted to believe that she was not like that, that she didn’t have to scheme and plot in order to make things better for her people, but the truth was far less honorable. 

Doing what must be done. The Greater Good. Duty above all. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. The Dalish imperative. She had done what was expected of her, but it didn’t feel right. Sar’een didn’t want to be cruel. She didn’t want to be cold. All she wanted was to be back home, laughing in her yurt with Nellia, going to sleep at night with no hard decisions to make that would interrupt her dreams. She wanted to feel like herself again.

But it was merely wishful thinking. She couldn’t feel like herself again. Not ever. The Sar’een that giggled in her hands with her friend and lived the quiet, carefree life had died at the Conclave. The Inquisitor was born, and that Sar’een had learned hard lessons about necessity. About sacrifice. 

Tears welled in her eyes. She would still miss her. 

“You all by yourself out here?”

Sera sauntered up next to her, and Sar’een attempted to right herself before her friend saw her self pity.

“Ey, what’s the cryin’ for? I miss somethin’?” Sera asked her. Sar’een wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeves of her jacket and shook her head.

“No. I just...I just didn’t like doing that. I don’t like having blood on my hands.”

Sera sighed, then gave a short shrug, “They’re the ones with all the blood. Now it’s feedin’ the marble of the fancy palace in return. It was all a shitshow, yeah? None of it shoulda happened.”

“Still, it’s not me,” she protested, “I’m the First of my clan. I’m supposed to save everything I can. I could’ve done more, but I didn’t. I chose not to.”

“And they chose to be noble pricks and walk all over the little people with their fancy shoes. They get to dig their heels in and leave scars and you feel sorry for them.”

“I don’t want to be like them, Sera,” she stated simply before the tears returned. Sera rolled her eyes in frustration.

“Fine Noodly. Let me show you.”

She furrowed her brow, “Show me what?”

Sera grabbed her arm and dragged her back into the ballroom in the direction of the exit.

“That you’re not like them.”

\----

The music was still playing when they snuck out of the Winter Palace and into the quiet night, their feet creeping from shadow to shadow as they crossed the High Quarter of the city. Wherever Sera was taking Sar’een was a long trek, and she was getting slightly annoyed with her sudden silence whenever she asked where they were going. She was tired, exhausted both physically and mentally, and wanted nothing more to wallow in her emotions before falling into sleep. But Sera pulled her by the hand further and further away from the grandness of the noble district.

Time passed, and the buildings turned from marble and stone to just stone to wood. Things became much less grand and much more what she was used to; the simplicity of humble living, with its straw rooftops and the smell of animals always lingering in the air. The streets in this much more familiar place were not lit, as if they had been abandoned, and they had only the brightness of the Winter Palace on the hill to reflect in their eyes. But it was far behind them now, and even if some wayward guard did catch a glare off their eyes, they’d be too fast to do anything about it. 

“Almost there,” Sera whispered to her, and Sar’een only sighed. Her friend stopped her and pulled her hand, lifting it and pointing it in the direction of a large wooden wall, “That’s where we’re going.”

The wall itself was long and seemed to span the length of a street, though it was full of missing planks and rotted wood. It was probably there more for symbolism than anything else. Still, it was strangely lovely to look at. Despite the darkness on the street they trekked down now, there was a bright orangish gold light coming from the other side of that wall. It gave a hazy halo over the top, and bright flashes escaped through the dilapidated parts before darting dark figures ran in front of them, creating long, ominous shadows. 

But there was also noise. Laughter. Singing. Loud conversations full of merriment and mirth, and by the slurred words leaving mouths, plenty of drink to accompany it. Sar’een knew now where her friend was taking her.

The heart of Halamshiral. 

“C’mon,” Sera urged her on, holding back a loose plank of the wooden wall. Sar’een climbed through it, and to her amazement, found an entire city on the other side. 

She was made to believe that the High Quarter was the capital of the city, where most everyone lived. But there was a sprawling cityscape here. It was humble, but clean, well maintained, and obviously loved by those who lived there. And so large. The High Quarter was simply a courtyard compared to this. Buildings stacked upon each other, winding streets and alleys, storefronts and shops, and high in the center, towering above everything, a great gnarled tree. The Vhenadahl. 

It had been burned. Even in the night Sar’een could see that. It’s branches that should be full of green buds of spring were blackened and splintering, and a great charred crack in the trunk split it nearly down the middle. This tree was dead. The buildings around it were ash as well, and as she looked across this city in of itself, she saw the scars of Celene’s pride written on it as clearly as if it were a piece of parchment. Black, burnt wood, dark as ink against the ivory paper, curving and looping around as letters do, the words they wrote telling the story. It was a bleak tale; one of the constant fear and degradation her people endured for no reason other than being different. For being easy. Easy to hurt, easy to destroy, easy to crush under the heels, just like Sera said. She gulped deeply, her own words stuck in her throat at the sight of such destruction.

“They’re still burying people, you know?” Sera explained as they watched two elves walk down the alley in front of them, unaware or uncaring of their presence, “Still finding bones and blood under all the ashes. Like some nightmare they can’t wake up from. They shoulda kept their heads down, but they didn’t.”

“They didn’t deserve this, no matter what they did,” Sar’een whispered as she took in the story of the chaos that happened here only months before.

“They didn’t. But it’s never nobles and empresses who get what they deserve. It’s always people like this getting the switch and leaving with red knuckles,” Sera stated, “Except for tonight. It’s all shite. But at least they got some justice, even if it means piss all when they keep pulling out the bodies.”

“Yeah,” the words seemed insufficient, but her friend was right. 

The needs of the many after all. And there were so, so many of her people in need. The life of one Empress hardly seemed enough compensation anymore.

\---

“And you ain’t heard nothin’ from your Inquisitor yet?” 

Elain signed the last order in front of her on the table of the great hall of the Nacre Palace. A requisition for additional healing supplies from Clan Banalderas, as the wounded in Wycome nearly matched those who were uninjured. She set her quill back into the inkwell, and handed the order off to one of her runners to have it sent by the corvid network. Though, it might all be for nothing. Paeris was deeply entrenched in the Antivan clans now. Her message could very well be ‘lost’, never to be seen again.

“It’s only been a week, Sal,” she finally responded to the weary-faced bartender, “We have to give her some time to gather herself and make plans. You just have to trust that she will come through for us, as she has done every time before.”

He rubbed the back of his neck before leaning back on his chair across the table from her, “I know it. But these damned merchants are breathin’ down my neck. They’re worried they’ll get their permits revoked and have to make a living traveling the Imperial Highway. ‘Course, not a Maker damned word about what’ll happen to us.”

“Naturally,” she replied as she lifted a mug of water to her lips and drank deeply. Her tongue always seemed to be dry in this city, despite the humidity, and no matter how much she seemed to drink, it wouldn’t leave, “Do not worry. My clan and my brother’s clan will not abandon you in your hour of need. But, if piece of mind is what you need, perhaps there are other people we can call upon in the city to aid us in building back up?”

“Ah shit. This again, huh?”

“Yes, this again. The Carta and the Coterie both have resources we can utilize, and both companies have reached out to express their interest in cooperation. They understand that no matter what happens, the very foundation of the city of changing, and they want to be part of that,” another drink, and she winced as she felt her child kick against her as she did so, “I say we make use of them while we can.”

“Yemet ain’t gonna like it. He’d rather pluck his eyes out  than watch the Coterie help his folks,” Sal warned her. 

“Yemet isn’t here,” she pointed out as she set her cup down, “He’s doing training drills in the foothills with the hunters, remember? With him occupied with my Banal’ras and Warlord Threlen, we can at least see what the Coterie has to offer. Water isn’t as much of a problem, but the fields are still being neglected. Perhaps they have a solution.”

Sal frowned at her, then chewed on his inner lip in thought.

“You think Yemet will make trouble when he finds out? The Guild follows his word like it’s the law. Don’t want to alienate them because we need extra hands to sow the fields,” he asked her nervously.

“There’s no need to overthink this, falon,” she reached across the table and placed her hand on his, “The Guildmaster isn’t a fool. He knows we’ll need all the help we can get to walk out of this confrontation with the Free Army unscathed. I’ll take the blame, and he’ll see reason after his initial anger is spent.”

“It’d be easier if you told us what you plan on doin’ with the Duke,” he didn’t fall into her attempt to soothe his fears and pulled his hand out from under hers, “He and that Tevinter Magister been sittin’ down in the cells since we stormed the palace, and not a peep on what’s gonna happen with ‘em. You’re startin’ to make folks real nervous, and people in the guild real annoyed.”

“Over what?”

He looked down the table in both directions, making sure no one was listening, then leaned in towards her, face to face.

“Over whether or not you’re gonna hang ‘em. We Marchers get real antsy at the thought of hocus pocus rituals and shit, and all this talk about Dire Hunts and all ain’t puttin’ their minds to ease. Merchants been throwin’ around words like  _ ‘savages’ _ and  _ ‘barbarians’ _ . Then there’s even talk by my people about mages summonin’ demons…”

“Your people listen to the Chant of Light too much. It’s made you suspicious of nothing,” she brushed his concerns off, “Do you think I’m going to feed the Duke and his accomplices to our mages so they can perform insidious blood magic on them? Or that we Dalish want to hunt and eat them for some reason? Tell me that you can see how silly this is.”

“That’s why I’m bringin’ this up to you. It’s only been a week since we overthrew the Duke. If folks are already waggin’ their tongues about what you Dalish are and aren’t doin’...well, you can see how it’s gonna be a problem.”

 

Her brows creased at the truth of his statement, and she strummed her fingertips on the hardwood of the table, “Yes. We need to be united on all fronts if... _ when _ the Free Army marches.”

“Then why not just tell us what you got planned with Duke Antoine? You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble,” he attempted coaxing her to give him an answer, but she was no more inclined to submit to his attempts than he was to hers. It wasn’t time to decide yet. There were still things she must see to first.

“Soon, Sal. Soon. The life and crimes of a noble is no simple matter. I must weigh my decision very heavily,” the back and forth of placations and false sincerity was unbecoming of both of them, but Elain understood that they were also both walking on eggshells. He had the chattering of the city merchants in his ear and their breathing down her neck, and the Diceni and her brother did the same to her. Whatever action either of them took would be under intense scrutiny. 

He sighed, then pushed away from the table and stood up, “Alright. I’ll give you another day or two to think it over. But don’t put it off too long. Our kin are listenin’ to me now, but I can’t tell you how long that will last. Let me talk to the Coterie. Maybe getting people in the fields will help.”

“I understand,” she nodded, then watched him walk down the path leading out of the hall, leaving her with her work and the low hum of a diverse mix of voices filling the air. 

She knew he wasn’t exaggerating his concern. Before the first batch of hunters and guildmembers left for Wycome’s foothills for mock battle drills, Yemet had been very vocal in his disagreement against bringing other criminal organizations into the fray. It was apparent he was still in the  mindset that things would return to the status quo and he needed to look out for the interests of the Thieve’s Guild. But Sal had better perspective. He knew just as she did that they were already setting the basis for a complete shift how the city was run. The endless meetings, the establishment of many new trade agreements between her clan and the merchants, the rebuilding of the alienage and the Bazaar…all small steps that would lead to a much larger undertaking she had in mind. 

“You’re being silly, girl. You know very well what you’re going to do with the Duke.”

Elain turned her head next to her and saw that Old Bida had been rolled up to the table in her special chair by Deshanna. The Keeper helped the old Maiden get situated next to her, then took her own seat on the other side of Elain. Another impromptu meeting, she supposed. At least it would be interesting, and she had been neglecting time with the old Maiden recently.

“I do,” she admitted quietly, “But they don’t need to know that so soon. The rumors of us performing a coup here are not unsubstantiated, and if I execute the Duke so soon after he is overthrown, the Free Army will not hesitate to come down on us in force. We must give Sar’een some time.”

“Hmmph,” Bida grumbled, “I hate the waiting. This city makes my bones hurt even more than usual, and I’m eager to see the Tevinter blood stain the stone of the palace walls.”

“Bida!” Deshanna whispered sternly, “We should take no pleasure from executing these men. It’s below you to think such things.”

Bida glared at the Keeper, her mouth turned downwards and the lines in her face etched even deeper, “I’m in pain. It’s hard to think clearly. Be a dear and fetch some of my ointment from Aricia. She makes it better than you.”

Deshanna rolled her eyes and sighed, but left to do as she was told. The Keeper was not so ignorant that she didn’t see Bida wanted to speak to Elain alone, but even after the harrowing experience here, she was still complacent to a fault. Luckily, it would make Elain’s task much easier without her or most of the Council to contend with.

“Will you make Sanctified Prey of him?” Bida asked once Deshanna was out of earshot, “Or just hang him on the gallows?”

Elain laughed, “You really are bloodthirsty, hahren. Are you so eager to see someone die?”

Bida leaned back in her cushions that lined the back of her chair, “Being in the city, killing a man who did our kin wrong, the excitement of battle….it brings me back to my youth. Makes my blood flow again, even if I didn’t get to fire a single arrow.”

“It wasn’t an honorable fight,” she said softly, “The things done to our kin here was horrifying. Be glad you didn’t have to witness it.”

“Even more reason for me to lament this dying body. I want to see rivers of blood flowing from those who were responsible,” she balled up her right hand into a fist and rubbed her knuckles, “But it’s just a pitiful dream of an old woman chasing her youth before the Long Shadow falls on me. I should be asking how you are feeling instead.”

“Me?” Elain puzzled, “Why me?”

“Because you haven’t spoken more than two words to Keeper Paeris since I arrived, and it’s become almost comical seeing the lengths you’ve gone to avoid him.”

Elain propped her forehead against the palm of her hand and sighed deeply, “Is it that obvious?”

“About as obvious as you breaking your oaths, at this point,” the old Maiden said, “You cannot avoid him forever. He will call a High Council whether he speaks to you or not. You are only wasting the small window of opportunity you have to turn him towards your side before that happens.”

“Paeris will never side with me,” she argued, “No matter what I say. He has a vested interest in seeing me fail.”

“And what about your Banal’ras? You’ve been avoiding the boy too,” her mentor pointed out, “And now he’s spent the last few days training the hunters with Threlen. Did you think to ask why Den did not go? Why did Threlen request him to run the drills alongside him? Our Warlord certainly isn’t so useless that he cannot direct our people in training.”

“I…,” the words stuck in her throat. She hadn’t thought about it at all. Elain had been so busy with other things that the thought had never occurred. 

Bida pursed her lips and nodded to herself, “That’s what I thought. Another reason to not wait to execute this Duke. Let the hunters know that you are still the one that leads them. If Threlen is pouring poison into your Banal’ras’ ears, then you must tighten the leash around them so there is no mutiny.”

She rubbed her temples as a headache began to set in, and her child seemed to kick in time with the throbbing inside her head, “I’ll have to think on it.”

“You’ve done enough thinking. Now is the time for action. Don’t wait for the Threlen and your brother turn everything against you while you brood over what must be done.”

“I’m sorry, hahren,” she stood up from her chair, suddenly very nauseous, “I’m just...I’m just tired. I’ll sleep on what you’ve said, but I know you’re right, of course.”

“Go on then. Try to sleep,” Bida dismissed her, “But don’t use it as an excuse to delay the inevitable. There is no time for indecision. Paeris will count on that to his advantage.”

Elain left the great hall and made her way to the private suites of the palace to rest for the night. In all the chaos of planning a complete revolution in Wycome, she had nearly forgotten her condition, her title still on the line. It was almost ironic that she had done so. Revas’ sloppy proposal brought it all to a head for her, but since that happened a few evenings ago, she had been single minded in her work, nearly forgetting that maintaining her title as Maiden was part of that. 

Her work was all that helped the guilt anymore, if she was being honest with herself, so it came as no surprise that she threw herself into it. As she discarded her clothes, washed her face, and slipped between the silk sheets of the lavish bed in some former noble guest room, it all flooded back to her. There was still so much at stake here, and if she kept pushing back the action she needed to take, she would be that much closer to losing her title. And it wasn’t just the Duke she needed to make a decision on. The hunters were salivating over what to do with Donovan, and no one, save for Lady Volant and Rin, knew of the identity and whereabouts of Lokka. That was her last resort. The card up her sleeve to pull if all her plans made things worse. Still, it was just another thing for her to act on.

She closed her eyes and decided to take Bida’s advice. She was always so observant, it would be foolish not to. Elain would speak to Paeris in the morning, and deduce the extent of Threlen’s influence over Revas. There was no room for guilt or fear, from either of them. She would not meander her way into losing the Mantle, not after all she had done.

\---

It had been difficult to sleep that night. Though she was exhausted to her bones, Elain’s mind would not cease its thoughts, and the child seemed to be just as agitated as her. She tossed and turned, whimpering to herself with each solid kick, and buried her head in the soft pillow when thoughts of losing her silent war invaded her mind. 

When Revas finally returned from the drills that night and sat on the end of the bed, she was still awake, but debated whether or not to show it. 

Ever since she had turned him down, his pain was apparent and it made her feel uncharacteristically awkward. It was one of the few instances of her life she could remember being at a loss of what to say. She had hurt him terribly, but there was also a sense of impatience with his pain. They had danced around this for years. This was nothing new. His surprise at the rejection only made her believe that perhaps he had lied to himself all this time, or at least pushed out the intrusive thoughts of her priorities so he wouldn’t have to face them. 

Still, she hated to see it. Despite it all, she loved him madly, and never wanted to see him hurt. Nor did she want a rift to grow between them. A future without him in it was just as devastating to her as one without her Mantle.

She sat up in the bed, watching the back of his head as he untied his boots, “How were the mock skirmishes?”

“Fine,” he answered brusquely. She couldn’t see his face, but knew he would be frowning. 

“And the Guild? Will they be able to follow our formation if the Free Army marches?”

“Maybe.” Another laconic response. He was either angry or pained. It was hard to distinguish between the two with him.

She huffed out a sigh, “Revas, please talk to me.”

He turned his head towards her and she saw heavy bags under his eyes and the sure signs of his anger. It was almost sad how predictable he was at times.

“We have nothing to talk about. You’re busy doing whatever it is you do here, and I’m working to make sure we can stand in the worst case scenario. Can’t keep your fucking title if you’re dead, after all.”

“That was unnecessary,” she flung her legs over the side of the bed with a sigh and walked around to the front of it to face him, “I don’t see why this is such a shocking development for you, Revas. This is my job. My life. It’s all I’ve known since I was a child.”

“It’s all you’ve wanted to know,” he pointed out, “The Mantle is on your shoulders, and any other options don’t matter. Just so long as you can feel like you have power over people.”

She crossed her arms impatiently, “This is  _ not _ something new. You have  _ alway _ s known this about me. The Mantle is my life, what I have sacrificed parts of myself for, and I’ve never led you to believe otherwise.”

He sprung up from his spot on the bed in disbelief, “ _ Never led me to believe otherwise?!   _ Are you fucking kidding me? What’s all this then? What are all these conversations about how much we love each other and how much titles don’t matter and oaths don’t matter and nothing matters but us? Why the fuck even start something between us if you didn’t want me to think otherwise?”

“Me loving you has nothing to do with my duty,” she argued with him, unimpressed by his anger, “I loved you more than I was devoted to my oaths, but you can’t ask me to just give up everything I’ve done to pretend to live happily ever after as a nobody!”

“ _ A nobody _ , she says,” he scoffed, “Gods, I wonder what that feels like. To be second to someone else your entire adult life. To want something more but to put that aside because you can’t stand the idea of being away from that person. Good to see how you really feel about me.”

Her face contorted in her own anger. He was being purposefully obtuse, and she wouldn’t stand for it.

“I trust you more than anyone alive. I’ve broken my oaths, knowing full well the consequences, because I can’t bring myself to let you go. And this is what you throw in my face. That all this time I’ve thought of you as nothing but the dirt beneath my feet. Ridiculous!”

She began to pace in front of him, her anger stoked, “You’re being short-sighted and sentimental. I refuse to let everything I’ve sacrificed go to waste because you got drunk and decided to let your romantic idealization of me run wild.”

“All you’ve sacrificed?!” he yelled at her now, his temper lost, “All that  _ you  _ sacrificed! You are so fucking self-centered you don’t even realize what I’ve given up for you. Years of my life, Elain! Years of my life serving you, biting my tongue, throwing aside the last shred of moral integrity I had to prop you up. And for what? So you can just fucking walk all over me and pretend that it’s okay because you have some _ fucked up reasoning _ about how I should’ve known better.”

“You’ve _ always _ known what this meant to me!” she yelled back at him, “And you’ve always benefitted from what I’ve done! Do you really think Threlen would’ve wanted you running drills with him if it weren’t for me lifting you up? Or that Den would’ve fought for you? Without me, you’d be just some hunter with a nasty temper and you would’ve been transferred from clan to clan, no one wanting to deal with you for more than a season!”

His face tightened in rage, his jaw clenching and his eyes narrowing, “You are un _ -fucking- _ believable, Elain.”

“And you’re an insufferable asshhole, Revas,” she answered him tiredly, already fed up with this fight, “You’re so tied up in your emotions, you don’t realize that I’m not, and that by turning you down I was trying to protect you. Protect  _ us _ . Marriage isn’t going to stop Paeris. It’s not going to make our problems go away. And it won’t suddenly make me realize that I was wrong all along, and that all I’ve wanted is a domestic life raising your children.”

“That’s not what I want!” his frown grew deeper, but his chin began to quiver and the next words were much quieter, “It’s not what I want. I just…”

He turned his head away from her, attempting to hide something overwhelming him. She waited for him to say what he needed to say.

“I just don’t want to lose my kid,” he confessed, his voice hoarse, “Or lose you. I thought if we loved each other and we were married it would...I don’t know...it would help.”

“It’s not always that easy,” she replied just as quietly.

“Yeah, I know. Nothing worth saving ever is,” he said just as quietly. Their anger fizzled out as quickly as it came, both of them exhausted of having the same argument. It wasn’t something new, something that just popped up, and they both understood that. It still weighed heavily on the both of them. 

Unable to take the distance that separated them now, Elain wrapped her arms around his neck and stroked the back of his head, “I’m sorry. I still can’t stay yes.”

He entwined his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck, “And I’m sorry you’ll never care about us as much as the Mantle.”

She winced at the words, fearing the truth in them, and fearing that this was what may finally drive them apart. But his mouth had no more use for angry, hurtful words, and instead, were hungry for something else. He tasted her throat, the taut muscles of her neck, then her chin, before finally falling on her own mouth. She moaned as he did so, thankful that they could put aside this new gap of disappointment that had grown between them and at least pretend that what they had for now was sufficient. 

But she knew this would not leave. They would have to confront it soon. If he couldn’t understand, and if she couldn’t let go, then this chasm would grow and grow until they were nothing but strangers going through the act as if it were a play. As his tongue explored hers languidly, she couldn’t think of anything she wanted less. She had spewed accusations of her lifting him up, but the truth was that he was the pillar that held her, kept her strong. The foundation in which the temple of her station was built. He had given everything to her, and she had selfishly denied him the dreams he had for her own sake. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered into his mouth one more time as he loosened the ties on his armor and dropped each piece on the floor. Her own robes fell soon after; their clothing created a pile of their insecurities and walls coming down, leaving their souls as naked as their bodies.. 

“I know.”

After they went through the motions of forgiveness in their tangled limbs, neither one naive enough to believe this was anything but a temporary solution, Elain finally fell asleep for a few blissful hours. Her dreams were dark and full of rain, a thankful reprieve from her usual nightmares, but they still left her feeling unsettled and hurting. The heavens of her dreams opened up and poured down torrents of water on her, as if powers beyond this world were trying to absolve her, washing away all her sins with the purifying rains. 

She floated in that hazy dream, letting the heavy drops hit her face and body. It was a tiny bombardment, and she let it also be a tiny punishment for all she had put the only person who truly loved for her through. The rain fell, smothering her in its humid warmth, but still washed away the tears that were forming in her closed eyes as well. 

But eventually the rain began to hurt, bearing down on her skin like a current eroding a stone, washing away her guilt, but other parts of her as well. She tried to move, tried to find some shelter, but she was paralyzed. The feeling was all too familiar, all too terrifying. She wasn’t in the Black Forest, but even in this storming void, she couldn’t escape the affect on her. Elain wallowed in that pain, praying to wake up.

When she did, the pain did not subside. Neither did the deluge of water. Her body was contorted in a strong contraction as she sat in a puddle of fluid that had soaked through her bed, and it took all of her willpower not to scream. Instead, she groaned through gritted teeth as the contraction moved down her body, sending spasms up her back as it did so. She gripped her sheets tightly as she tried to refrain from crying out, pulling on them as she fought for control.

Revas stirred next to her, his eyes opening slowly, but he sat up right away when he felt the soaked bed and saw the sweat pouring from her red face. 

“Go get your mother,” she ordered him as she took deep breaths once the contraction passed, “It’s time.”


	41. Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child is born and old dreams die.

A storm rolled into Wycome when the Maiden went into labor. The echoing thunder and cracks of lightning sank a notorious pirate ship in the harbor the same evening her wails could be heard from the halls of the guest rooms in the Nacre Palace. Many sailors and dockworkers saw it as a sign that the city was back under the Maker’s protection, and that He was pleased with them cooperating with the elves that saved them from catastrophe. The rumors even caught on with merchants, whose opinions were as ever changing as the seasons, lining up with what their customers were buying at the time. A city blessed by the Maker was profitable, even if it had a foreign military junta enacting order until things settled. 

The Dalish that patrolled the city walls and protected the city elves from predators taking advantage of tragedy were not so convinced of the storm’s agreeable portents. Whenever great Elgar’nan’s wrath blew in from the heavens, there was always a sense of unease. The people living inside buildings and stone houses never had to worry about wind and rain damaging supplies and yurts. They never had to be anxious of staying in the open too long, lest lightning strike and start a fire that could wipe them out. Most had never even seen the funneled wind tearing across the land, eating up anything that came upon its path. Storms to the Dalish were not a blessing, but rather, an ominous warning of dangers to come and the ravenous consumption of the wrath of nature. 

Revas burned incense at a makeshift shrine the Loremaster of the clan had set up in the Nacre palace because he understood all too well. The tiny wooden statue of Elgar’nan holding the sun was flanked by Mythal, and on a separate table, the ashes of the previous cone he lit lay before the feet of the statue of Sylaise. Prayers to the Hearthkeeper to help Elain deliver their child safely, and pleas to the Earth Shaker that His wrath wouldn’t take them both from him. The smoke that floated up from the tables made his eyes water and his nose itch, and he was annoyed he felt compelled to do this. 

He had never truly been pious, not in the way others were. The Creators had long been locked away, if they ever existed, and silent all these years as his people suffered for the shape of their ears. He couldn’t bring himself to enjoy or understand the rituals of Ghilan’nain or the spoken curses of Dirthamen, or even the gentle arts of peace practiced by acolytes of Sylaise. Revas was a hunter, and he had a hunter’s heart; it was simple and dedicated, finding joy and meaning in an arrow making a kill after tracking his prey for hours. What did the rites of Andruil matter to him when he saw Her in the blood that spilled on the ground as he sliced the throat of his kill?

It was utterly pathetic that he let his fear of the situation override his better judgment and left him kneeling on the floor, choking on blue smoke. But this was a fight he couldn’t win by drawing his bow. He had seen the sheen of sweat that covered Elain, the paleness that washed over her, her eyes widening in fear as the contractions grew closer. Then there was the blood, more than he imagined there would be, and her loud cries as her body prepared to expel the life they created together. 

It had been too much for him. Hunting a boar, killing a templar, even storming a palace all left him in control. There were surprises and things that were unexpected, but he was in control of how he reacted, how the tide of the battle would go. A boar may attempt to gore him, but if his arrow was quick enough, it wouldn’t happen. That wasn’t the same here. For all the talk of this being _their_ child and _their_ future, at this point, he had nothing to do with it. All he could do was stand by and watch as she suffered, helpless to stop it. Memories of the stories Sohta told him about Elain’s mother dying when she gave birth to her entered his mind, and as the day passed and the dark of night flooded into the room she had been enduring pain for hours in, the sconces were lit and cast deep shadows over her face, scaring him. He panicked.

The Long Shadow wasn’t prey he could hunt, so now he listened to Elain crying down the hallway while he stumbled over incense and prayers he didn’t truly believe would help. But they were something he could focus on and pretend with, something to keep him occupied from thinking of the worst possible outcome. Even after all they’d gone through as of late, losing her still terrified him. For all his life, she had been the only goddess he truly served.

“There you are,” limping footsteps approached him, soft and bare on the hard stone floor of the hallway, “Your mother has been worried sick. Said you bolted out of there like spooked halla.”

Warlord Den cast a shadow over the tiny statues upon his arrival, turning the smoke swirling around them from a soft blue to a dark gray, making Revas shudder.

“Just needed to get some air,” he lied to him. 

“Kind of hard to breath with all this burning resin around,” Den waved his arm in the air slowly, trying to clear up some smoke, “You getting cold feet?”

Revas sighed and stood up from the ground, his moment of solitude over, “I’m fine.” 

A loud crack of thunder filled the hall, making the portraits of generations of Wycome’s nobility tremble on the walls. The little statues of the Creators shook as well, and he watched helplessly as the Mother of Hares fell over. Her little carved face hit the wood of the incense burner, smudging the ashes all over it. Revas picked Her up and placed Her upright, but the black smear across Her face now marred the hard work that had gone into carving Her features.

“If I were a superstitious man, I’d say that’s a damn sign,” Den commented, but then heaved a great sigh, “Luckily I’m not, and Kellen’s not here to tell you otherwise. Come on, walk with me.”

Revas looked down each end of the hall, then back to Den, “Walk where?”

“Back to the woman ripping herself in half to give birth to your child, you idiot. The least you can do is be there for her,” he scolded him before slowly making his way down the hall. Revas followed closely behind him, making sure not to over take his pace, “This isn’t like you, Shem’assan. You’ve helped your Ma out with calving the herd a hundred times. It isn’t much different.”

“I’ve seen a hundred calves die too. And the does giving birth to them. Sometimes we can save them, sometimes we can’t. It’s up to the gods,” he attempted to explain himself. Den looked over his shoulder at him and shook his head.

“So you got the piss scared out of you at the idea of El dying?” he laughed softly at Revas, “Trust me when I say the sun would go out before the Maiden leaves this world with work still on her plate.”

“That’s not how it works. There’s no control over it. If anything happens, it happens, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Den continued to move along, a half-shuffle half-walk since his injury numbed his limbs, completely unphased by Revas’ misgivings, “Plenty you can do, kid. But I get it. You’re afraid of losing your grip more than anything else. Isn’t easy watching what happens instead of leading the charge.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with him. The Warlord slowed and slowly lifted his arm to put a hand on Revas’ shoulder.

“Look...I understand it all too well. You can’t stand sitting by, helpless, seeing the world change around you and you having no say in it. It’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever had to swallow,” he inhaled deeply, “But things are changing, and some of it you’re going to just have to be okay with watching. Doesn’t mean that it’s the only option you have though.”

“What do you mean?”

Den looked behind them, making sure no one was nearby, then paused their slow march to Elain’s bedside, “You aren’t the one giving birth to the kid, but after it comes out, things are going to change again. I know you have it in your head that you want to be married and settle down, but I know Elain. I know _you_. And I know you’re just as bad as she is about sitting still and watching the world go by, whether you want to believe it or not. If you two just give the ambition up to raise your kid, you’re both going to end up miserable.”

“You don’t know that,” he argued with him, but something about what Den was saying was making Revas feel uneasy.

“You could barely handle a few months of routine patrol rotations before you were barking orders to the other hunters...how would you be content doing that for the rest of your life?” Den asked him impatiently, “I know you’ve got a lot of shit on your mind right now. But you need to start thinking clearly. As much as you hate to see it, you aren’t like your Pa. Heliwr was happy just being a hunter. Took his orders without complaining and was perfectly fine taking the armor off and putting his bow down every night. Not a bone of ambition in his body. But you know better, kid. You’ve already tasted what it’s like to wear authority, be the top of everything, having all your competition bend under you, and you are going to keep reaching for the peak of that mountain. We both know it.”

_“When you’re on top of the mountain and have nowhere else to climb, the only direction you can go is down.”_

The words Heliwr told him so long ago whispered in his mind, trying desperately to overtake the bluntness of Den’s assessment of him. But the Warlord’s lecture would not be quieted. It was shouting into an empty night, echoing off the walls of his skull, making him doubt what he believed he wanted. Or rather, what he needed.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Revas needed to find out the point in all of this before he processed the jumble of thoughts plaguing him now.

“I’m trying to tell you that you’re not Heliwr. You never were Heliwr. You’ll never be him. _Fenedhis_ , you’re not even really Sohta, save for that temper. You’ve got a worm eating your guts that pushes you to make sure you’re never the one bowing, never the one eating the dust. It makes for a good Warlord, but not for a good husband.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he argued with him, raising his voice without realizing it. Den speaking so candidly about his father made the uneasiness turn to outright discomfort. 

“I know it better than you can imagine, Revas. I’ve been there. Tried settling down and being the family man for a girl I loved. But the worm at my guts too. I got my vices that I couldn’t stop myself from indulging in. Didn’t even want to stop,” Den paused for a moment, then moved to lean his back against the stone wall of the hallway, “I’m not saying you’re going to promise Elain something you can’t give, like I did, but you’re being idealistic. She’s never going to stop wearing that Mantle, and you’re never going to stop reaching for the next challenge. You won’t be happy coming home every night and leaving the hunt out there, and she won’t be happy settling in some monotonous job without a lick of power. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can let go of this fear you have, and the sooner you can become her equal.”

“I’m already her equal, Den. We’re partners,” Revas attempted to correct him, but the words felt hollow as they left his mouth. The Warlord wasn’t convinced either.

“The fuck you are,” he shut him down, “She may trust you, but the respect isn’t there. You follow her every whim, are there for her every beck and call, and she throws you bones so you stay complacent on your leash. But no one with two seeing eyes hasn’t noticed you getting more and more frustrated with it. It’s the only reason I agreed to this plan of Threlen’s.”

“So it can be you pulling the leash instead?” he interrupted him, his tone as caustic as he felt.

Den stared at him in a quiet fury, his face suddenly as hard as stone, his eyes narrowed, his brows knitted. He was no longer the relaxed leader always chasing his youth, always laughing. This man was older, his age finally showing in this lines in the corners of his eyes and the creases in his now unlaughing mouth. Revas rarely saw him like this and immediately realized he had angered the Warlord.

“You know Revas….Threlen is right about one thing: that mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble,” Den said coldly, “I don’t need to explain myself. You know that I don’t like putting myself above others. You know because I’ve always treated you like a person, instead of a tool, when you worked under me. And you know you can’t say the same since you became Banal’ras. So start thinking before you spout off that bullshit at me again. You’re not Warlord yet.”

Revas sighed, one so deep and full of exhaustion that is surprised him, then leaned onto the wall next to Den. The base of his skull touched the cold stone, and he closed his eyes at the sensation, allowing himself to be calmed.

“I know,” he replied to Den much less abrasively. He had no willpower left to fight, “I’m just...it’s all at once, you know? Even if Elain pulls through this, keeps her title, and everything stays the same, it’s still all going to be changed now. I’m going to be a father. I’m going to be a _Warlord_. It can’t always be about me anymore. I need to think about my kid and the hunters and protect them the best I can. And with the threat of the Free Army marching, it could all be lost anyways,” he snapped his fingers loudly, “Just like that.”

“That’s the burden of leadership. You have to be ready to lose. And you have to be ready to give it up to win,” Den leaned his head back, mimicking Revas. His face was still hard, but now looked more tired. His cheeks were hollow, parts of his face still paralyzed from his injuries, the muscle and grit that once defined him as Warlord now washed away. Den knew better than anyone about giving it all up, “I know you have what it takes, Revas. You just have to let go. Stop putting Elain before everything else, and start thinking for yourself. You have good instincts; trust them. Everything else will come to you after that.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he smiled slightly, the right corner of his mouth lifting, “Now you need to get back in there. You’re going to see your kid born, fall in love just like your Pa did with you, and then you’re going to look over to Elain and want to marry her all over again for it. Let yourself have that moment, but don’t forget the bigger picture. That moment’s gonna pass, and the world is still going to change.”

He placed his hand on Revas’ shoulder once more and gave him a genuine smile, full of love and understanding that made him remember things he had buried long ago. He smiled back at him, weaker and not as full, the anxiety of the situation still weighing heavily on him, but not nearly as heavy before.

“Thanks Den.”

“Anytime, kid,” he dropped his hand, urging him to go.

Revas pushed off the wall and walked towards the tall cedar doors at the end of the hallway, hearing the groans of the mother of his child carry down the silent hall. Things were changing, and he could no longer be content in praying that things would work out. It was going to be his job to see to it that they did.

\---

It was late into the evening when Elain finally gave birth to the child. She had squeezed onto Revas’ hand through the last moments of her ordeal, nails digging into his skin and cutting him, but her cries of pain cutting him even deeper. At long last, the labor ended and the baby fell into the Hearth Matron’s waiting hands, it’s piercing cries filled the entire room, and the voices of their loved ones cried as well in jubilation at the delivery.

Revas kissed Elain’s hand that still clutched onto him desperately, but she seemed too exhausted to notice. The labor had been long and difficult, taking a toll on her. Sweat dripped down her brow and her hair clung to skin like seaweed to a rock; creeping tendrils falling in her tired eyes, around her fire-red cheeks, and crawling up her throat as it constricted and expanded rapidly with her breath. 

“Is it okay?” she asked weakly, her voice hoarse from the long hours. Revas watched Aricia clean the screaming infant and wrap it swiftly in swaddling. Long years of practice in midwifery made it all look effortless.

“A healthy son, Maiden!” the Hearth Matron answered brightly. Elain held her hands out to her, reaching for the tightly wrapped bundle, and Aricia handed him over gently.

Elain nestled him into the crook of her arm, supporting his fragile neck, and rocked him gently while he wailed. Revas moved to her side of the bed, and watched in awe as she cooed at the tiny face inside the swaddling to calm him. He wanted to reach out and touch him. Wanted to memorize the little nose with his fingertip, feel the softness of his new skin, hold him against his chest and feel his warmth. It was an ache inside his chest that he had never felt before, and it took his breath away.

Den had been right.

“This is our son,” he said breathlessly to them both, knowing that it was no longer just he and Elain. No matter what changes happened, this crying little thing was part of their life now. 

“He is,” she agreed before placing a tender kiss on his forehead. He stopped his screaming and now only whimpered in his mother’s arms. Pitiful little noises coming from his puckered mouth that made Revas’ heart melt like beeswax under a flame. It was his turn to reach, and Elain handed the the baby to him with ease. His face scrunched up as if he would scream again, but once Revas adjusted him in his arms, he was content to open his eyes instead. 

His son looked up at him, his eyes struggling to focus, but when he did, it was a quiet understanding of home. He knew that he was safe in his father’s arms, and was quieted by that. Tears formed in Revas’ own eyes at the thought, and he was overwhelmed with the love he immediately felt for this confused, lost little person. He traced his finger around the smooth curve of his plump, red cheek, and brushed the soft tufts of dark hair that stuck up on the top of his head. It was all he could do to stop himself from crying.

“What should we name our da’assan?” Elain asked him quietly, looking up from the plush pillow she now laid her head on. Her hair flowed out around her like a halo, and despite her swollen eyes and the pale pallor of exhaustion that painted her whole body, he still thought she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. Den was right again; he wanted to make everyone else in room leave so he could beg her to marry him, to stay with him like this forever.

But he knew now it was just a moment. He would savor it while he could.

“I don’t know,” he replied to her as he kissed his son’s downy crown of black hair. His little eyes closed again, this time staying shut, as he fell into sleep after the long journey he had taken. Sohta approached Revas’ side with a basket in her hand, already vying to take him away. 

“We have to take Elain to be washed so a fever doesn’t set in,” Sohta leaned over and whispered to him, but it was hard to pay attention as he watched his son sleep. Small breaths, in and out, barely visible. Tiny shots of panic went through him each time he waited for another breath to come, “And they’ll both need some rest before she can try feeding. Here, hand him to his Hahmae.”

He didn’t want to let go but did, with great reluctance. As she tucked him into the bedding of his basket and made quiet exclamations over how much he looked like him or the Elain, then clucked with Aricia and Deshanna about being a grandmother. Revas barely heard it over his heart beating in his chest. The moment was already passing, and as Elain reached out for Deshanna to help her out of the bed to bathe the sweat and blood off herself, Revas felt a deep melancholy sit over him. 

The spell was broken, and in an instant, time began to pass again. The healers in the room rushed to clean up, his son was carried off in his basket along with Elain to be examined and cleansed properly, and he was left by himself, watching them move like bees in a hive while he couldn’t stop the sadness that rushed over him. 

No longer needed, Revas pried himself from the bed that Elain would rest in, made his way around the ornate, high-back chairs that she would feed their son in, and walked out the doors that would keep their new family, for the time being. The time being would be fleeting though. They would go back to their aravels soon enough, back to what life was like before, and yet another change would come and go, leaving him tasting bitter dust.

He wandered aimlessly for a short time. The halls of the Nacre Palace were mostly empty; the storm drew everyone into their warm fireplaces and beds, and the deadness of the night had settled over the whole city. He supposed he could try to sleep as well, while he had a chance, but he doubted his mind would allow him.

Instead, he walked ever onwards, one foot in front of the other, letting his body guide him where he felt his soul compelling him to go. He grew anxious and unsettled when his feet led him down the spiraling staircases and into the old castle’s dungeons, and as the stench of stale urine and sweat filled his nostrils, the uneasiness turned to dread. 

He wasn’t sure why he came there. The answers to everything were still just beyond him, even though Den said they would come. They floated in the air like insects, buzzing and flitting about, disturbing his peace but darting away when he tried to reach out to grab them. The answers eluded him, so perhaps his soul led him here to find the nest in which they lay. 

Or perhaps it was searching for absolution.

The guard on duty nodded to him and stood at attention. Genryn, a young hunter who had proven himself at Minanter and now here. 

“Take a break, Genryn. Go get a drink and a bite to eat. I need to question a prisoner.”

He gave the order with ease. There was no question he could fall into command easily, but this guard was under no obligation to obey it. Another thing Den was right about; he wasn’t Warlord yet.

Still, Genryn flashed him a grin and a nod, then walked off to leave him alone. Command came almost too easily, and though he didn’t want to question it now, he couldn’t help but believe that maybe after all these years of trying, he still wasn’t like his father. His father was never one to command. Revas furrowed his brow over who he thought he was, and who he knew now, decidedly, that he was not. In that realization came more questions. What kind of person would he be for his own son?

Questions that had answers somewhere. He just needed to keep digging. 

“Don’t bother giving me that water again. I know you filth aren’t giving us the clean stuff from the tributaries,” a voice called out from the cell immediately to his right. All the torches on the wall nearby it had gone out, leaving nothing but a stinking pile of rags and flesh on the floor in the darkness. The man he sought was inside, and when he shifted under his coverings, the pungency of his smell made Revas’ nose twitch. 

“I didn’t come to bring you water.”

The man under the rags jerked his head upwards as he heard his voice, his eyes wide with fury.

“You come to finish the job? Knife a beaten man in the gut in the dark?” Donovan spit at his feet, “Wouldn’t expect anything else out of a murderer like you.”

“I did kill your father.”

Revas could see the man’s pained scowl in the dark. The slow _drip drip drip_ of the heavy rains leaking into the dungeon’s cells were the only noise in the crowded space now. 

“I spent three days hunting him,” he began, watching as the man’s face scrunch up in rage, “I had many competitors who wanted to get to him first. For the Glory of the Goddess. For the Glory of the Maiden. I wouldn’t let them though. His death was mine and I was eager to take what was due to me.”

“Stop,” Donovan said through gritted teeth. Revas slowly shook his head and pulled his hands behind his back to stand at attention. 

“I trailed him for the first two days,” he continued on, “There were moments where I had to sabotage other hunters on the same trail, and a time where I needed to kill the two other men that we set loose with him. They were simple. Easy prey. They begged and pleaded with their lives, but had no information to give me. I slit their throats and hid them while they bled out. I would have to go back, but first, I needed to kill your father.”

The malice Donovan exuded was palpable. He could almost feel it sitting on his skin, like a well-worn cloak that made him itch underneath it.

“He was smarter than his comrades and led me on a wild goose chase through the marshes. But I knew the territory like the back of my hand. He did not get far before I caught on his trail again. When he sensed I was getting close, he took a run for the nearby road, hoping to draw attention from some patrolling guards. I shot him in the left knee with an arrow, then the right. He fell and waited for me to arrive to negotiate.”

“Stop. Please,” he said hoarsely. But Revas couldn’t stop.

“I wasn’t there to negotiate. He was a slaver, part of the company that abducted two of our scouts the year before. I had no intention of letting him live, but I let him believe it. He told me he did what he had to to support his family, his kid. I didn’t care. Once I got all the information I wanted from him, instead of slitting his throat like the others, I pinned him down on the ground and sawed through his neck while he was still alive. He fought, but not for long. His eyes rolled back inside of his head and he drowned in his own blood.”

Donovan came flying off the ground in a rage, slamming into the iron bars that held him, thrusting his arms through the spaces to try to grab him, “ _ **YOU SON OF A BITCH!”**_

Revas stood unfazed and unflinching, steady in his probe for answers.

“I piked his head along with the others near a fairly open road to claim my prize: the prestige of winning the Dire Hunt, the title of Banal’ras, and the heart and soul of the one I love above all others,” he paused, faltering on his own words as Donovan began to sob, his face pressed against the sturdy iron bars, “Your father was nothing more than a means to an end for me. A worthless shem to be gutted and discarded to make way for my glory. And there was so much glory. My name was on the lips of every hunter from here to the Tirashan. I still can walk into any clan in Thedas and inspire fear and awe, all for what I did to him. He died so that I could be uplifted. He died so I could pretend for a little longer with my Maiden. He died so that I could climb my mountain.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Donovan asked him, distress and white fury making his voice all but a harsh whisper.

His fingers twitched behind his back, but it was too late to lose his nerve now.

“Because yours isn’t the first father I killed. Or my last, most likely. And…”

He nearly couldn’t go on, but this was important. He took a deep breath in, then pushed himself forward.

“And because I would never be able to live at peace if I didn’t know how my father had died; if I spent years not knowing. Instead, I saw what happened to my father myself, buried him myself, said the words to send his spirit off myself, and even that didn’t heal the wound his death left in me. You needed to know what happened to yours.”

“Lot of good it does me now! Where were you eight years ago after it happened? Where the _fuck_ were you when I spent _months_ looking for him!” Donovan screamed at him, spittle flying out of his mouth and his knuckles turning white from gripping his cell’s bars so tightly, “Where were you when the Chantry burned a Maker-damned shirt of his ‘cause there was no body to do it for!”

“Consolidating my Maiden’s power. Consolidating my victory,” he answered him bluntly, “I didn’t give it a second thought.”

“So why tell me now? How is me knowing going to make me feel better, you fucking elf piece of shit!” he spit curses at Revas, yanking and pulling on his bars, “He’s still dead, and I still failed to get him justice the justice he deserved! I’m going to die in this fucking filth ridden, knife-ear city, and knowing what happened to my dad does jack all for me!”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he replied calmly, “I did it for me.”

Donovan’s face twisted in confusion, in rage, in disbelief, “WHY?! Just fucking tell me _WHY!_ ”

He closed his eyes and remembered how his baby looked at him, his new eyes seeing his papae for the first time. He recalled the contentment he had when he did so and felt his heart aching all over again.

“Because I have my own son now. I would’ve begged for my life for him...with my dying breath, like your father did. And if my life hadn’t been spared either, I’d want someone to tell my son why. How. Let him bury me in mind and spirit, so that he isn’t left wondering.”

“So you’re feeling all guilty because _now_ you have a son and _now_ you understand!” he laughed maliciously at Revas’ confession, “How fucking convenient. Well, from a son to a father, you haven’t done me any fucking favors. I get to die thinking about Glover choking on his own blood and watch his murderer be the one to finish me off.”

“I know.” He turned to walk away. 

“You’re a monster,” Donovan said lowly behind him, “Nothing more than a murderer wearing a soldier’s armor. I may die knowing the truth about my dad, but you’ll spend the rest of your life knowing that you beheaded a begging father, a father like you, without a lick of remorse.”

Revas said nothing in return as he ascended the spiral staircase out of the dungeon and sent the guard back down, but he knew that too. Knew all too well that he was a beast, running loose and free and conquering all in his wake for his own glory. And he also knew that Den had been more than right. Revas was no Heliwr. 

But the answers were more clear now. What he had to do was more clear now. His mountain was right in front of him, and it was time for him to start his climb. Maybe his father was right and he’d reach the peak. Maybe Den was right and he’d never stop climbing. But he had delayed it for too long. Made excuses for it too long. He needed to take his life back into his hands. 

He slipped quietly back into his temporary quarters shortly after, eager to see his son and Elain again. Moments with them would keep things in perspective. Remind him why this was important. It was still dark, but dawn was coming soon, the glow of orange and pink light dancing off the waves of the sea from the room’s balcony view. Elain slept quietly in the bed, her face showing no signs of the disturbance of night terrors, and next to her, swaddled in his basket, was their child.

Revas crawled into the bed and leaned over the basket, checking inside to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. His son’s lips suckled in his sleep, and his tiny brows knit together in frustration when no milk would come. He wasn’t the bright red that he was earlier, but his cheeks were still the color of rust, and the corner of his mouth had a speck of crust from his first meal. He wanted to stare at him forever.

“His first feeding was difficult,” Elain was not as asleep as he thought, and she whispered to him from her place in the bed, “He hasn’t gotten used to latching on yet. Your mother says it comes with practice.”

“You both will have to get used to it,” he said absently while he focused on memorizing his son’s face. Elain sat up and looked over the side of the basket with him. 

“We’ll see,” she said before running the back of her finger over his full cheeks, “Have you thought of a name you like? I can’t come up with anything.”

“Yes,” he brushed his fingers against hers as they explored their child together, learned to love him together, and silently affirmed their own love again through him. It was another moment to savor before they both must do what was necessary once more.

“Heliwr.”


	42. Choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain struggles with new challenges a child brings; Aneth'ail struggles with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of the previous version of this chapter, which gosh, just disregard that entirely, it was awful. The parts with Elain are the same, but the second part is completely redone, revamped, and recharacterized. I hope everyone finds this version much better.

“If we stay here, we’ll surely die,” Kellen argued hotly in the antechambers of Elain’s temporary quarters, “If we leave though, the Free Army will let the people here be and instate a new Duke or Duchess. We will prevent more loss of life by pulling out.”

“If we leave now, we leave the city elves completely defenseless,” Revas shot back, his voice rising above the Loremaster’s panicking shrillness, “These Marchers might spare the humans and dwarves living here, but they aren’t going to give a damn about the elves.”

The back and forth was becoming tiresome. This was the second Council meeting called since her delivery, but the first that included the city elves as well as Warlord Threlen and Paeris. Lavellan couldn’t decide what to do without hearing the weight of their opinions as well, or so Keeper Deshanna insisted. Elain would’ve preferred to dismiss the Council entirely and continue to pursue her plans in the city without their spineless interjections. Rebuilding took precedence. They all knew what was going to happen. The plays on the gameboard were as clear as day, but some members of the Council still wanted to go through the motions.

“He’s right,” Sal pointed out from his seat next to Deshanna on the dark velvet couch of the antechamber, “They ain't’ gonna give us a chance to explain ourselves! You promised you’d help, and you can’t just back out of it now that you’re getting cold feet.”

Heliwr fussed inside his swaddling wrapped against Elain’s chest, and she looked down to make sure he wasn’t waking over the loud voices. Everytime he seemed to be awake since his birth, he was full of red-faced screaming. It had only been a day, but it was already grating on her nerves how utterly dependent her son was, and how his screeching wails demanded her constant attention. She had expected the trials every parent endures with an infant, but Heliwr seemed louder and less content than most.

She sighed quietly at the thought. Her child _would_ end up being the most demanding, naturally. Especially during a precarious time when her thoughts must be focused on the matters at hand. Murmurs of fear and discontent over the extended stay in the city plagued the artisans and hearthworkers, and many feared that they would only end up slaughtered when the Free Army came to take back the city. No word from the Ethinan or from Yemet’s sources in the Guild gave an indication that the Free Army had gathered to march yet, but the lack of information and the quiet from the Marcher cities was no less unsettling. That’s what she should be working towards, what she should be turning her attention to. Not following the whims of an infant and ineffectual Council that was no better than he.

“The _Maiden_ oathed her help to you and she has gotten her Prey,” Kellen reminded the old bartender, “There is no reason for us to stay anymore.”

“You can’t be saying you’re gonna leave us to handle the whole Free Army ourselves!” Yemet said loudly.

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” the Loremaster answered, “You are safer without us here.”

“ _Halla shit eatin’ scum fucks!_ ” Yemet rose from his seat, knocking over the silk draped stool and kicking it across the room in a rage, “Should’ve known we couldn’t trust you!”

Sal rose up quickly, along with Revas, to reign the Guildmaster’s temper in. The last thing they needed was inter-fighting between the clan and the Guild. They pulled him away from the circle of random furniture used to seat the Council, and Sal spoke whispered words to him as Yemet glared at the unfazed Loremaster.

“The Diceni will not leave, regardless of what Lavellan’s Council decides,” Warlord Threlen announced as he leaned against a nearby marble column, “We will see this through.”

“Lavellan’s hunters won’t leave either,” Elain finally cut in, tired of seeing the bickering. Heliwr’s tiny fists began to push against his swaddling cloth, and his face contorted into a frown. He would be waking soon, “This is not a matter up for debate. The Dire Hunt was invoked and it is not relinquished until my debt is satisfied.”

“The Banal’ras already subdued Captain Donovan. He’s our prisoner. The Dire Hunt is all but over,” Kellen pointed out.

“Don’t be obtuse, Kellen, it’s unbecoming,” she said dryly, “The Dire Hunt doesn’t end until my Prey is dead. And because of the Duke’s capture, the situation has been complicated, and my options must be weighed heavily.”

“At least we can agree on that,” the Loremaster grumbled, “But while you weigh your options, the threat of a purging creeps closer. How long will you leave us in suspense before you make a decision? How long must we jeopardize our safety so that you can plan out the most effective way to earn glory for yourself?”

Heliwr began to whimper pitifully, his face slowly turning pink from the impending cries that would come. She bounced him lightly, hoping it would put him back to sleep.

“I have no patience for your theatrics today,” she answered the Loremaster tersely, “The hunters will stay and that’s the end of the discussion. Even if this Council disagrees, they will listen to their Warlord and Maiden first. Den and I are on the same page.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Kellen fought back, his voice ringing in the large room. Heliwr began to cry, his mouth downturned in a frown at the loud noise. She stared daggers at the Loremaster for waking her son.

Kellen looked away from her and turned his attention on the Keeper, “Deshanna, this is getting out of control. Artisans are already talking about mutiny and going back to Autini unescorted. You and I both know what a disaster that’ll be…”

“Are disagreements on course of action for our hunters cause for _‘mutiny’_ now? Lavellan has fallen into a sorry state when our very own are threatening a break when matters need our attention. I will not leave our kin here in Wycome to fend for themselves!”

Elain nearly shouted the last words to him, and Heliwr responded by emptying his lungs with his powerful wails. She hurried to press his mouth against her breast, praying silently that he’d latch on right away, but felt her mood deteriorating even more when he beat at his swaddling with his tiny fists and refused.

“We don’t need no halla shit eaters taking care of us. We’ve done it on our own since forever, we’ll do it again,” Yemet interrupted angrily. He was not helping matters, but didn’t know better. 

“Don’t be so stubborn, son,” Sal tried desperately to get the Guildmaster back in check, “They aren’t gonna leave us, alright? We ain’t gonna do this alone.”

“Keeper, you cannot deny that you’ve heard the discontent as well. They don’t trust us, they will never trust us, despite our efforts, and now we risk losing everything for their sake,” Kellen resorted to trying to convince Deshanna to override Elain’s orders, “We buried too many at Minanter, and we’ve buried even more here. How much of our blood must we shed for this so-called kin who think so little of us?”

“I’ve heard no discontent or mutiny in the clan!” Sohta rose from her seat, her cheeks red with her anger, and a mumble of voices began to rise along with her, “You’re making excuses for your cowardice! Just because you want to run and hide, doesn’t mean the rest of us will!”

There was a chorus of agreeing voices, as well as dissenting ones, but Elain couldn’t distinguish them over her son’s screaming. He had thrust his hands so hard that they came loose from his swaddling, and now she struggled as he squirmed in her arms. She brought his mouth up to her breast again but had no luck. Heliwr didn’t even seem interested in eating with her. He merely wanted to show his malcontent with what his mother had to offer him. 

_“The Keeper must make a decision! She has sat back long enough!”_

_“The Maiden stood in the middle of battle with the hunters here. Why let the Keeper overturn what good she’s done!”_

_“Deshanna stood too! It’s the ones who didn’t that want to leave! Let them!”_

“Enough, enough,” Deshanna finally attempted to settle the Council, though as per usual, it was too little, too late, “I don’t want to make a decision on this alone. This is by no means a safe bet. We are risking very much by being here. But despite what the Clan decides to do, I will stay. I cannot leave our kin staring in the eye of the Free Army with no support behind them.”

“And what of the Inquisition? Why not let them handle this?” Vhannas made his voice known, “The Inquisitor has an army and a vast network of spies already in place in the Free Marchers, and it was she who led us into this situation. Let her finish what she’s started while we preserve what we can, while we can.”

A murmuring of whispers broke out in the room, the Council and its attendants intrigued by the Craftmaster’s suggestion. The idea was sound, even if spoken with Vhannas’ tactlessness, and Elain had to bite her inner lip to keep her from yelling her frustrations. Her father always did know how to turn a crowd in his favor by shifting blame, and it angered her that the blame was falling on Sar’een. She had saved their clan their clan at Minanter and paved the way to enact monumental change in Wycome. Blaming her now was purely political and based entirely in fear. 

Heliwr continued to scream, and though Elain wanted to address the Council’s gullibility and ease in which they turned on their own, he would not let her attention be drawn elsewhere. She patted his backside and rocked him gently, trying her best to calm him, but to no avail. 

“The Inquisitor is still part of Clan Lavellan. One of our own. If Sar’een finishes what she starts without you, you _will_ regret not standing with her. The Diceni will make sure of that.”

It was Paeris finally deeming it necessary to intervene, and a chill ran up Elain’s spine at her brother’s threat. His tone was as cold as a breath of winter, making her blood feel brittle and icy, as if just being touched would cause the entire illusion of the world to break, leaving just her and him. He had obviously grown in his time as Keeper; his affectation of his words could now match Vhannas with ease.

A fact not lost on their father. 

Vhannas’ jaw stiffened at Paeris’ statement, and the two now stared openly at each other, each on opposite sides of the room, as if they were wolves circling, waiting for the opportunity to tear at the other’s throat.

“Despite what you wish to believe, the Diceni do not have sovereignty over Lavellan. We will make our own decisions and you must abide by rules of tradition. Or has that changed since you went to the Steppes?”

“No,” Paeris responded coldly, “But rules of tradition dictate that we do not abandon one of The People. If Sar’een must fight for our kin here alone, then you have broken rules we’ve upheld for centuries.”

“She does not need our protection,” Vhannas all but sneered at his son.

Heliwr grew further agitated at Elain’s fumbling attempts to soothe him, and screamed loudly. His cries bounced off the high walls and ceilings of the antechamber, and the sudden quiet that had fallen over the Council was broken by his deafening wails. She tried desperately to get him to feed, something to put in his mouth to stop the screams, but he refused to latch. He wanted nothing to do with her.

“We are discussing important matters. Either quiet that child or leave!” Vhannas barked at her in his agitation.

They were the first words he’d spoken directly to her since finding out she was with child. It had been over five months. She didn’t know why it shocked her so much; he could only avoid her for so long, could only pretend she wasn’t a part of his life for so long. But it still angered her. All this time, all the worry and doubts and pain she endured at his angry words, and all he could say to her was an order to get her newborn son to be still. Her anger and hurt coiled in her stomach like a serpent, and she felt it ready to strike out. Heliwr’s incessant screaming did not help matters.

“I have every right…” her son wailed louder at the sound of her voice. She shifted him in her arms, and lifted her chin to look at her father, “I have every right to be here. This is my--”

Heliwr’s next cry was piercing, louder than any before, and she felt tears in her own eyes form at her frustration. She couldn’t even express the indignation she felt towards Vhannas in perhaps the only opportunity she would get. She wanted to scream at him like Heliwr screamed at her; screams fraught with frustration and pain of neglect. 

But her son would not allow it. She rose out of her chair abruptly, bounced Heliwr in her arms again, more briskly, and gripped onto his limbs tighter. Her skirts trailed behind her, swishing against the marble floors as she exited the antechamber in her fury, and once she passed the threshold of her guest suites, she slammed the doors behind her aggressively. An opportunity missed, a chance to undermine her father hopelessly gone, and all she was left with was this screaming, screeching, needful little thing that was being used against her. 

She looked down on her son’s red face, and tears matching his fell down from her eyes. They wet his cheeks as surely as hers, and they flowed fast and freely for them both. Helplessness hung over her, and no amount of rocking him in her arms was helping.

“What do you want, Heliwr? Please, just tell me what you want!” she cried at him pitifully. He only screamed more, his throat becoming hoarse at the prolonged fit. 

“Elain...” 

Sohta had pushed open the doors to the bedroom and rushed inside, her leather boots hitting the marble nearly as loud as the cries, and without any further words, took him from Elain’s arms. Revas followed behind her and hovered over their son, speaking softly to him while his mother attempted to calm him. It did not work however. Heliwr’s ire had been stoked, and now he filled the palace with his wrathful scorn like a storm. 

“What did you _do_ to him?” Revas threw the accusation at her angrily, and it made her lip quiver in response. She was too upset, too frustrated to argue with him. There was no fight left in her.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to. The smack Sohta delivered upside Revas’ head made him yelp in surprise.

“Enough of that! He’s an infant. He doesn’t understand any more than Elain does. This world is new for him,” she told him sternly as he drew away and rubbed the base of his skull. Sohta looked at Elain with her brow furrowed in sympathy, “He’s hungry, love. You have to try feeding again.”

“He wants nothing to do with me,” she nearly sobbed, the sting of Revas’ blame still fresh on her mind. 

Sohta placed him back in her arms and pulled the loose fabric of her dress down, then gently guided him to her breast. Heliwr repelled his head, turning it abruptly, screeching at the movements. She was left unwanted, rejected, and exposed. The tears flowed freely and loudly from them both. 

“C’mon Da’assan, you have to eat,” Revas tried to coax him, but like Elain, seemed to be at a loss of what to do. Sohta looked between the trio, and let out an exasperated sigh.

“I’ll get someone to help. You’re both too worked up to do anything right now,” she said, “Come with me, Revas. You’re only making things worse here.”

“Ma--”

She rose a finger up in the air to silence him, then turned to Elain once more, “We’ll be back very soon. Just put him in his basket if it’s too much for you, love. Crying isn’t going to hurt him, alright?”

Elain nodded her understanding to Sohta, thankful for the patience the only mother she’d ever known possessed. They left her alone once more, and she carried herself and her son to a nearby chair and sat down in exhaustion. He still screamed and screamed and screamed, and although Sohta said he wasn’t hurting, his cries hurt her. Heliwr hated her, Revas blamed her, her father could barely hold his contempt for her, and in a moment she should easily be convincing the Council to stay in the city, all the distractions left her immobile. 

She missed her old life keenly in that moment. It pricked her heart like a sharp pin, embedded deep into the crevices Elain dared not reflect on in her waking hours, but now it left her with no choice. She was diminished, fallen far from what she had been, and there would be no going back. This squirming child in her arms was that deepness in her heart brought to bear. 

“Do you hate me so much, Heliwr? Did my resentment for you as I carried your all those months poison your mind against me?” she cradled her son gently, spoke the words gently, though they were full of venom, “I couldn’t help it. You’ve threatened to undo everything I’ve built up.”

He stilled cried, and she sobbed along with him, both mother and son utterly lost at how to relate to each other. 

“Always so dramatic.”

Elain looked up from her prison of self-imposed pity to find Paeris standing at her doorway, looking down on her sympathetically. She had truly hit the bottom of the river if her brother could muster anything but quiet contempt for her.

“He hates me,” she said forcefully as she wiped the tears from her sore eyes, rubbing them against the thin linen of her dress sleeve, “It’s not dramatic to be afraid of that.”

He approached her slowly, his eyes focused on Heliwr, “You’re not afraid of him hating you. You’re afraid of him tearing apart your life. You just said so yourself.”

“And is that so wrong? I’ve worked hard for this!” she shot back at him. Paeris sat next to her on the bed, his attention still on her son.

“May I?” he asked, holding his hands out. 

Elain eyed him suspiciously, annoyed that he ignored her response, but relented. It could do no more harm than had already been done. She handed Heliwr to him, and watched as Paeris turned him over on his stomach, and then very gently tucked his hands against his chest.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh shh,” he answered her, or Heliwr, she could not tell which.

After making sure his hand was supporting Heliwr’s fragile neck, Paeris tilted him slightly, letting his little legs hang, then began to rock him carefully to and for. Her son seemed to be surprised by the motion, his weeping eyes opening wide and his once screaming mouth now turned into a questioning ‘O’. The screeches and screams stopped as well, and he was instead left merely whimpering in his uncle’s hands. 

“How did you do that?” she asked him in shock. He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he rocked his nephew in the air.

“Practice. I have two children of my own, if you’ll recall,” he said pointedly, “You will get used to what works for them and what doesn’t. Meira used to love this, but my son did not.”

“Da’paeris was always more like you,” she said coolly, “Too aloof to lower himself to basic comforts.”

Paeris let out a laugh, “More like you, perhaps. Always screaming and yelling so his voice would be heard. Even when you were Heliwr’s age, you were constantly crying your authority to anyone who would listen.”

“I was not,” she crossed her arms over her chest, “Sohta says I was a sweet baby.”

His mouth grew wide in a grin that was uncharacteristic of him, “Sohta lied to spare your feelings and ease your fears, I imagine. You were a terror.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m nearly a decade older than you, Elain. I remember you being this small,” he lifted the now calm Heliwr closer to his face and placed a kiss on his cheek with a smile. There was a tenderness there she was not used to seeing in her brother, “You used to scream at all hours of the day and into the night. Father had no idea what to do with you. He barely had the patience for me; there was nothing there in his heart for a crying infant. He’d swaddle you up tightly, place you in your basket, and carry you off to Sohta. She’d take you for most of the day and night, and Vhannas would only pick you back up once you had cried all the tears you had in you. I asked him why he didn’t want you to stay in our yurt, and he looked at me and said, _‘There’s no room for children who cannot earn their keep here. Get back to your work._ ’”

“That sounds like him,” she mumbled. Paeris looked up at her and sighed, then gently handed Heliwr back into her arms. She mimicked her brother’s motions, and cradled her son on his stomach instead of his back, and was overjoyed to see him sitting contently in her arms. The tears threatened to return, but she bit her lip and held them back.

“Vhannas never had patience for children. It’s why he never took on apprentices unless they wore vallaslin,” he continued his conversation while she rubbed Heliwr’s back gently and listened on, “Sohta was a gift from the creators for the patience she had with him when you were young. Revas was a wild baby, you were a needy one, and Vhannas expected a lot from her. She juggled everything admirably though. Tried not to fight with him in front of you, tried to give you and her son equal time and attention, did her best to make sure you wanted for nothing. You’d do well to listen to her advice. She’s a good mother.”

“I know,” she agreed softly, still in awe over the magic he had worked on Heliwr. She knew Vhannas didn’t like children. It was no surprise. She had just assumed her brother was the same way since he was more like their father than he would admit. But a thought occurred to her that she had not considered before, and it seemed foolish that it hadn’t.

“What was our mother like?” she lifted her eyes off her son’s to meet Paeris’ when she asked, and the look she was met with spoke of something unhealed. He folded his hands into his lap and turned his gaze downwards.

“Loving. Protective. Immature. Timid. She wanted more from her life but wasn’t very driven. Her family line was full of Hearthmatrons and powerful women, and the expectations on her translated to her expecting power and prestige to come to her with little effort. She had a naivety to her that was sometimes endearing, but more often frustrating. Like you, she was a spoiled brat, but unlike you, she also had moments of humility. Vhannas cared for her, in his way, more than he cared for me. She hated him for not lifting her up. She loved me more than anything else. She wanted to love you. There isn’t much else.”

“You miss her still,” she observed. Paeris nodded.

“She was my mother. When Vhannas wanted nothing to do with me because of my magic, she only drew me in closer to her. Losing her was very difficult,” he revealed to her, “But that was a long time ago. Nearly thirty years now. We should let the spirits of the dead rest and focus on the living.”

“I suppose,” Elain was suddenly embarrassed by her questions. Meira had been dead for as long as she had been alive. Uncovering who her birth mother was now seemed to be a labor of futility. Knowing who she was would not change who Elain was, who Paeris was, but it did leave her with some perspective. Heliwr began to doze in her arms as she massaged his back, and his warmth against her was something she realized she could come to appreciate. Perhaps that feeling came from her mother, as Paeris’ love for his children came from her. Or perhaps she was just being sentimental.

“I had come to apologize to you on Vhannas’ behalf. His outburst today was unwarranted, despite your insistence on being part of Council meetings so soon after the birth,” he explained once a moment of silence fell over them, “I will speak to Deshanna about keeping these meetings more tightly controlled. She never was one for organization and agendas.”

“There’s no need for that. Father will have to answer to the gods for his neglect one day. Until that day though, I can handle myself.”

He stood up from his seat on the bed next to her and smoothed his robes, “I count the days. It has not happened yet though, and I will not suffer an inactive, ineffective Council in Lavellan. The Diceni cannot act as mediators while your clan teeters on decisionmaking. Too much hangs in the balance. If need be, I’ll invoke my position as High Keeper of the Free Marches to see that action is taken.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight on end at the insinuation. For anyone else, it would be an innocent testament to Paeris’ dedication to seeing this mission through. But Elain knew her brother. It was a warning, a courtesy he was giving her for some reason she did not understand, always done in his damnable, enigmatic way. Elain never knew what was a trap and what was genuine concern with him, and she could not risk letting her guard down for either.

“Once I am fully recovered from giving birth and have settled into a routine with Heliwr, I will handle the indecisiveness. There is no need for intervention,” she replied flatly, “I appreciate you standing up to Vhannas today on my behalf, but you’re overreaching now. This is still my mission, contrary to what you want to believe.”

The moment of understanding between them was broken, and the bitterness returned as fast as a wave crashing on a rocky shore.

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Sar’een,” he said ominously as he walked away from her to exit the room, “Perhaps you should attempt to recover quickly.”

The tall wooden doors swung open, Revas and Sohta on the other side, with their eyes widening at the Diceni Keeper’s presence. He nodded cordially towards them as he strode out of the room, leaving questioning glances and puzzled faces in his wake.

“Are you alright?” Revas asked her as he and his mother entered the room. 

“Fine. But I may not be for long,” she said darkly, then crooked her finger to have him get closer. He bent over her, his ear to her face, with Sohta looking on in confusion, “We need to execute the Duke and the others as soon as possible. Paeris is making a move.”

Revas shook his head slightly in disbelief, “A move to do what?”

“To kill them himself,” she explained in a whisper, “I won’t let it happen. Make the arrangements. It must be done before the end of the day tomorrow.”

“Are you kidding?” he exclaimed hoarsely, “Den will never--”

“Tell him that if he doesn’t, this becomes a Diceni operation, and the future of the city is at stake.”

Revas pulled back and nodded, understanding the severity of the situation. If Paeris moved against her to oversee the executions himself, her pull in the city would be all but lost. The merchants couldn’t tell one elf from another, but after Lavellan’s Council floundered on staying to stand against the Free Army, the city elves would find the Diceni the safer bet to throw their support behind. Elain refused to let it happen. She’d worked too hard for this.

“How did you get him to stop crying?” Sohta asked her, breaking them out of their work. She merely shrugged and bounced Heliwr in her arms while eyeing Revas so he fully comprehended the urgency of the matter. 

“I have to go talk to Den,” Revas announced, then leaned over and placed a kiss on both Elain and their son, “I’ll be back later. Good luck with the feeding.”

After they watched him leave again, and Sohta sighed impatiently, “I’m not even going to ask. The less I know at this point, the better.”

“Did you find someone to help me?” Elain attempted to change the subject. Sohta hated the wet work, and she didn’t want her to get involved if she didn’t have to.

“Yes. She’s waiting outside,” she affirmed, then stared down Elain sternly, “Now I want you to be polite and gracious. She didn’t have to take the time to do this, and Mythal knows you are difficult to teach, so make sure you aren’t driving her off, alright?”

“What are you--” Sohta lifted her hand in the air to quiet her, just the same as she stopped Revas’ protests earlier. 

“Just promise me, Elain. I’m tired of seeing you sabotaging everyone trying to help you,” she scolded her. 

“But Mamae, I haven’t--”

“Tsst! Promise me!” she wouldn’t listen to excuses. Elain rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically.

“Alright. I promise.”

“Good!” Sohta beamed her approval, then turned towards the entrance of the room, “Okay love, you can come in!”

Elain listened to soft, plaintive footsteps enter the room, accompanied by the swishing of long skirts. Her new teacher held her own infant in her arms, rocking it gently, and her cheeks flushed at Elain’s appraisal of her. Though, to her credit, it did not last long. Her large, liquid eyes met hers with an inner determination that was quietly inspiring, and the sinking feeling she felt resulting from it from it was no one’s fault but her own. 

“Hello Elain,” Nellia spoke to her with a forced aloofness, her chin raised and all her usual vibrance tucked far away from the Maiden, “I see we have a lot of work to do.”

\---

_Your wretched body fails, Aneth’ail. Let us consume it for the All Father._

_Give into us, Hand. You are of more use as a vessel._

_Doesn’t the weight of the waking world push down on you? Death is a release you seek._

Aneth’ail stared at the veritable island of red lyrium in the center of the Poppy Avenue’s water source. The water reflected its otherworldly glow, leaving the room lit with a dull crimson light as it reflected off the excessive marble columns lining the aqueduct. The mystery of its presence had still not been solved, despite his best efforts at interrogation and research, and the water therein was still helplessly unuseable because of it. The burden had come to the Dalish and the city elves to bring in water from the MInanter outside of Wycome to keep the dwindled population healthy, and it was taking a toll on their already limited resources.

The incessant whispering made his work difficult. The voices clawed at him from the inside, scraping against his skull and picking apart the deepest fears and unspoken truths in his heart, leaving him feeling more and more exhausted with each visit. He still came to the depths alone though, hoping that the answers and solutions would be thrust on him if he looked into this unholy precipice long enough. 

The only answer he received was a confirmation of all his faults, his doubts, his painful longing for the burden of his title to be lifted from him. This lyrium sang to him of things he did not want to face, and yet, he still could not tear himself away from it. 

He lingered there longer than he should have, searching for some kind of reason for the horrific deeds committed in this city, all alone but for this bleeding wound of magic that saw inside him just as deeply as any seer, any oracle. He almost wished a Black Tongue still lived so that they could be brought here to decipher it for him. Like everything else though, it was just out of his reach, and he was left grasping and grasping, pushing himself through the pain in order to do so.

Aneth’ail’s thoughts were interrupted when he saw the shadow of some figure cast across the room out of the corner of his, and he readied himself immediately. He would have to rely on his fists and martial prowess. Pulling on the Veil here to augment his magic would be a mistake; it was thin enough as it was. He hoped whoever approached was alive and an ally, not some apparition of Death again. But in the gloom of the red light, the shadow made it seem as if Death Itself had manifested, stretching across the placid, dark waters of the reservoir. His heart beat faster at the prospect, and for a split second, he almost believed that this was not an illusion, and that Death had really made Itself known here, ready at last to take him away from these burdens.

_We could take you, Hand of Vengeance, if you would only let go._

“Not yet,” he whispered to himself, “not yet.”

But the shadow shortened as the mysterious figure drew closer, their footsteps measured, not dragging like a corpse’s, and there was no obvious effort on their part to hide. Aneth’ail still held his guard, never one to let himself get too complacent, but when the footsteps grew loud and echoed over the reservoir, he was greeted by the silhouette of his Keeper. He lowered his hands and let out a breath of relief.

“I had hoped I wouldn’t find you here,” Paeris called to him as he crossed the perimeter of the reservoir along the stone pathway, “You’ve spent too much time as it is around this lyrium. Who knows if you’ll start suffering ill side effects like the humans did.”

“I’m not drinking the water,” Aneth’ail assured him, but knew the assurances were lies. This place did effect him, and he found himself more and more fixated with every visit, “Besides, I need to get to the bottom of this. Someone must pay for the atrocities done to the elves here, and it is my duty to see that it is done.”

Paeris eyed him suspiciously, “Then why haven’t you executed the Duke and his Tevinter advisor already? It’s clear this was their doing, at the directive of some higher command.”

“The Maiden called a Dire Hunt,” he answered, but in truth, he had no interest in acting out an execution on humans. He may be many things, but blood thirsty was not one of them. The Dire Hunt was a convenient play that allowed him to defer to Elain in the matter. 

“Does a Dire Hunt outweigh the opinion of the Hand of Vengeance? Or are you truly ready to relinquish any authority you have to the Maiden? She will prey upon your indecision and fear, my friend. ”

Paeris presented the situation innocently, as if it weren’t loaded with accusations, as if it weren’t baiting him to defend himself, as if it weren’t another way to wear him down. He knew it did all those things and more. He was no fool. And Aneth’ail was no fool either. The same song would play, and they’d do the steps to the same dance. The Keeper always shifting around the floor surely, confidently, avoiding every divet, every stone, every miscalculation, effortlessly getting the Hand to trip over himself. And he would allow it, because he _was_ a coward. The will to fight Paeris had left him long ago.

“There’s no need for me to take this over. Elain has it well under control,” he at least attempted to defend himself, “She can handle it just fine. However, she cannot handle the investigation of the red lyrium. The whole point of scions is to work in unity. We are doing that.”

The Keeper’s mouth formed a tight line, and it made Aneth’ail’s stomach form what felt like a tight knot in his abdomen. It meant another onslaught of insidiousness, hidden behind the words he didn’t say but declared all the same, an elaborate stage set where Paeris would play the concerned friend and corner him again. Aneth’ail had nowhere to escape this time. 

_We can help you escape. Just open up for us._

“Unity? Working together? Is that why she all but controls the city now, the elves and the merchants pressed firmly under her thumb? You’re doing nothing but hiding in this forgotten cavity so that you may burrow and not face the things that happened here,” Paeris crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the dull light of the lyrium in the water, then made a show of heaving a sigh, “Each time you dabble in the possession, the hold is stronger and stronger and it takes you longer to recover. And you’re afraid of facing what that means, aren’t you? Afraid of confronting that the control you’ve fought for so long is slipping away, and it won’t be long until it takes you and you will have no say in it.”

_Just open up._

He blinked slowly in an attempt to quiet the voice in the lyrium. Their whispers settled just inside his ear, familiar and intimate, and the words, though as venomous as he predicted, spoke the truth. He was afraid. He was a coward. He couldn’t let go and he wanted to let go more than anything in the world. Let it take over this used up vessel and free his spirit so he didn’t dream of white hot lands and excruciating pain. He untucked his hands and let them fall to his waist, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

It would not be long. His life was no longer bright and full and sprawling ahead of him. He approached his fortieth year, and it felt like a millenia. This duty, this….this burden had taken its toll. Paeris was right, and he couldn’t deny that.

“Yes, I am hiding, if you must know. I’m scared of it, yes. I am afraid, and I am exhausted, and I am weighed down by the things I have done,” he began quietly, “I killed many innocents here. People who suffered from corruption. They had no choice. They stared at us with blank eyes and walked on shambling legs and sucked air into their emaciated chests in great rattling breaths, and now they are nothing but charred bones scattered over broken marble. I cannot even say it was a mercy, because the choice of Death was taken away from them. But I did my duty, what I have always done, and now I pay the price in every beat of my heart, in every time I close my eyes.”

He looked towards Paeris to see him staring at him, rapt with attention, but his mouth now slightly downturned. Aneth’ail knew he was giving him arrows to use against him with his defense, but he was never a manipulator or a diplomat or a player in this political game. And he was never good at hiding how he felt from the Keeper. Paeris always had a way of prying it out of him, out of of everyone he so much as looked at. He would’ve made a fine Black Tongue, if he hadn’t set his sights on greater things.

“It must seem petty and inconsequential to you,” he continued on, meeting Paeris’ stare with his own malice, resentful that his brother-in-law couldn’t give him a moment’s rest, “A few humans lives that were already all but lost, taken away in a flash of light. That moment their spirits went to meet their Maker, it would’ve already left your mind as if it happened a lifetime ago. But I’m not you. I have never been you. I cannot just leave these things on the ground and walk around them. Yes, I’m hiding. No, I do not want to interfere in the Maiden’s machinations in the city. Let you and her fight your battles over something that will not matter a month from now. What I battle, however, will never leave.”

Paeris let out a huff, and shook his head slowly, the slight frown now replaced with a knowing smirk, “Oh, Aneth’ail. You were too soft to take on the role of scion, and it’ll kill you before you make any mark on the world. Even a small mercy to those have suffered is anathema to you.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

_We know you wish it would come to you soon. Allow Death in, Aneth’ail._

“Perhaps,” he answered, “Or perhaps it goes much deeper than you want to see.”

The Keeper gave a deep sigh, then took a step back and leaned against the glass mosiac depicting boats and dolphins on the nearby wall, “That is a matter for another day, when you are far away from this Creators-forsaken city. For now, I need to know why your father is spending so much time with the Banal’ras.”

_Another day, another time. We will have you no matter what. Why wait?_

“How should I know?” he said flippantly, annoyed that Paeris kept pressing him while he was trying to focus. Sweat began to form on his brow as the struggle to keep his thoughts as his own became too much. He wanted the Keeper to leave and let him recover. He needed to drown this all out.

“I thought you didn’t enjoy the games?” Paeris gave a small chuckle, “You know your sister is afraid of Threlen replacing her dear friend as his Second, and you and I both know he’s whispering into Revas’ ear. Why not just tell me the reason?”

_Wouldn’t it be better to invite in our warmth instead of living in the cold? Death does not have to be icy teeth. We can fill you, Aneth’ail._

They slithered in his mind like snakes, constricting against his skull, making his head throb. The sweat dripped down his temples and he clenched his teeth together at the words. His fingers curled into a fist, and his nails dug into the vulnerable skin there. 

“Now you ignore me,” Paeris accused him when he didn’t immediately answer, “I see there are secrets shared between father and son again. Hellan’s heart will break…”

“ _It’s nothing!_ ” he snapped at him through gritted teeth, “Not everything is someone working against someone. Threlen is training with the Banal’ras because Den is in no condition to give orders from the field if the Free Army marches. Sometimes...sometimes it’s just as simple as that.”

Paeris’ cold look spoke of his wariness. He did not believe him, “It’s never as simple as that. Hellan will have a reckoning if Threlen undoes the hard work she has done on the Steppes, and you will be the receiver of it. You know this.”

_Warm and full, like a beam from the sun. The All Father can touch you and leave you whole again._

His hands began to bleed as his nails dug in deeper with each lick of the voices against his mind. His whole being shook as the words seemed to creep down his entire body like insects; jagged sharp claws in his spine, vibrations of wings beating, reverberating in his lungs, gnawing maws on his ribcage. He felt as if a swarm would burst from inside his skin. 

“I...She resents me, I know,” he covered his face in his hands, trying to scrape the infernal intruders away, “It’s not my fault. Father and I were always close...I cannot change that for her.”

“Then why let him treat her so disrespectfully? Is she not his child as well? Why stand and watch while he undermines her every step?” Paeris pressed him, hissing the words, “If Threlen uplifts Revas as his Second, I will not be able to stop her this time. She will keep Da’paeris and Meira from you, and I will be powerless.”

_Let us in. We will stop her. We can stop everyone. No one will take anything from you again._

“She can’t...I..” the room began to feel darker, smaller. No longer a large reservoir, but a cage. The lyrium itself seemed to pulse and beat in time with his racing heart. He couldn’t handle it again. Not again.

“Please stop. Please just stop,”he barely whispered. 

“I can stop and walk away, but I worry for you, Aneth’ail!” Paeris pushed off the wall and began to circle around him instead of listening to his request,, “I have no say in Hellan’s parenting while I am away from the Steppes. She can deny you the only thing in the world that settles your mind and gives your heart joy. And she will, you know she will, because you have let your father embarrass her at every turn! You always have! You’d rather sit by and watch then stand up!”

“I said stop!” he asked again through clenched teeth, his brow scrunched in pain. The sweat pooled at his neck, and his body felt like fire. There was magic pulling here, magic that was as part of him as his bones, and it began to thrum inside of his body in defense. He gasped as he tried to pull it back.

“If I stop, if I leave this as it is, you may never see your niece and nephew again. Is that what you want?” His eyes glowed red like the lyrium, and he prowled around him like a wolf snapping its jaws, eager for the meal.

“N-no,” he replied weakly, the bristle of magic against his skin beginning to grow and expand, threatening to consume him. He was getting too emotional, and he was losing his fight to gain control. The air around him took on a metallic taste, and his body harkened a storm without his willing it to do so. He saw the glow of red in Paeris’ eyes make way for the glow of blue, as they caught the light emanating from Aneth’ail’s body. They grew wider at the sight, nearly feral as their prey was weakening before them, and there was nothing Aneth’ail could do to stop it now.

_Why stop, Hand of Vengeance? Do not allow him to enforce Dominion over you. Let us in. We will flay the flesh from his bones and make him pay. Let us in._

“If you want to see Da’paeris and Meira again, you must listen to me! Take the power away from the Maiden, and once it is away from her, the Banal’ras is nothing! If he is nothing, then there is no worry! Threlen _will not_ uplift a defeated hunter attached to a disgraced scion! Safeguard your sister and her standing in the clan! Stand up for yourself and the rites that are _owed_ to you by your trials! You are the Hand of Vengeance. _Let it in_.”

_Let us in. Let us in. LET US IN._

“ **ALRIGHT!”**

His shout bounced off the walls and echoed down into the branching paths of the catacombs that led to this reservoir. It sounded like a deathly dirge, his anguish and fear cried over and over again, the song’s resonance matching the pulsing thrum of the red lyrium. It was a veritable chorus of the panic that struck him as he felt his control slipping away. 

He reached backwards and balanced himself on a marble column, trying to balance his weak body and soul. It was cool to the touch, and grounded him, and for a moment, all he wanted to do was slide to the floor and weep. But Paeris stood before him, his eyes set, and his face now impassive.

“You’re doing the right thing. I only say this because you’ve spent far too long being content in letting others make your decisions,” Paeris picked a piece of lint from the sleeve of his robes as he patronized him, “It’s beyond the point where you need to pick up the authority owed to you and use it.”

Aneth’ail closed his eyes and rested his head against the pillar, unable to respond anymore. His chest felt heavy, as if he stopped focusing for just a moment, that he would stop breathing altogether.

“You should be able to intercept any plans Elain has to execute the Duke and the Tevinter advisor. The seed has been planted in her, so it will be very soon. If you don’t, it could cause a chain reaction that will only end in pain for everyone.”

The Keeper turned his back on him and walked away without another word. He watched as he followed the path in which he came and disappeared, as an apparition into the night. Aneth’ail still couldn’t breath, and the magic he began to draw in earlier would not disperse. It bristled over his skin, tiny little arcs of electric reaching up and falling, with the unmistakeable tint of the blueish haze that clung to him when he called upon Vengeance to fill him remained. It looked almost like smoke, bright and brilliant in contrast to the darkness of the reservoir.

He looked up again at the red lyrium that would not leave him, not stop haunting him. It also manifested tiny arcs of red electric, and exuded a black inky haze around the clustered crystals. The magic was familiar, and all at once foreign. He saw himself in it, saw his nightmares in it, saw the unfathomable in it.

The thought occurred that it was the touch of a God that manifested like this; pooling and swirling around vessel the God chose, having no more control over it than the vessel had control over the mountains or the plains or the rivers. It was a force of nature, and as such, never meant for something as immaterial as this world to hold.

Aneth’ail was never meant to hold it. His time was limited, and he prayed that his spirit would not be shattered before the Long Shadow was cast over him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So shout out to everyone who pointed out the issues with the last version of the chapter, and my apologies again for the discomfort I caused. I really do hope you found this version not only void of all the problems the last one had, but also better as far as pacing, characterization, and enjoyment as well.


	43. Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Abersher'al arrives at the Steppes for a reckoning, but it's Llyn and Sellarin who find it.

“Hey! C’mon Buddy, wake up!”

A gentle shaking and a soft whisper brought Llyn out of his slumber, and he was irritable for it. It was was the first night in over a week since he didn’t have odd dreams, and he had hoped it would translate to a day where his head wasn’t full of a groggy cloudiness. Traveling across the Silent Plains to reach the Steppes was an awful trip as is; making that trip with his mind feeling fuzzy and his body drained made it nearly excruciating.

He opened his eyes slowly and saw Sellarin leaning over him, the gentle curls of her grown-out hair falling loosely over her face. He raised his palm and pushed her away, then turned over on his side to go back to sleep.

“Hey!” she whispered her offense, but continued shaking his shoulder, “We need to move, ‘cmon!”

“Move where?” he mumbled into his wool-stuffed pillow. Llyn closed his eyes again, hoping that the dark dreamlessness would come back.

“Out of here,” she yanked on his arm now, pulling him up out of his bedroll, “Quick! While the watch is distracted!”

Sellarin wasn’t going to let him get the rest he so desperately wanted, it seemed. With a curse and a mumble, he sat up and grabbed his leathers from the pile next to the bedroll and started getting dressed.

“Can you stop being so secretive for a minute and just tell me what’s going on?” he whispered sharply as he pulled his boots over his calves. They were only a day away from the Diceni camp. There’s no reason that he could see why they’d need to sneak away now. 

“I’ll tell you once we’re moving again,” she pulled on flap of the canvas tent and gestured swiftly with her hand, “Which will be never if you don’t hurry!”

“Alright, alright!” he stumbled out of the tent, then waited for her to follow. He looked around the campsite and turned his chin towards one of Abersher’al’s Ethinan patrolling nearby. 

Sellarin understood the gesture and lifted her left shoulder slightly. He nodded his affirmation and slinked into the shadows, heading northeast of the campsite. It was more difficult to move quietly now that they were out of the desert and onto the hard packed soil of the Steppes, but Llyn knew what he was doing. He might not be the spy Sellarin was, but tracking and moving long distances without getting noticed was a lot easier for him. His ears perked as he heard her quiet footfalls behind him, and he paused for a heartbeat to listen and see if anyone else heard it. It was dark here, the stars obscured by wispy clouds of an approaching rain, but he didn’t see or hear anyone picking up on their movements.

He supposed they wouldn’t. They’d been traveling for a week and a half with the elite forces of Clan Absersher’al, moving over the sparse Silent Plains in silence during the day, but enjoying jovial conversation and kinship at night. Llyn had to hand it to this clan; they were quick to open up once they were out from under the powerful eyes of the Triumvirate, and he and Sellarin ingratiated themselves with the elite hunters rather quickly. All save for the Lead Ethinan.

Tala was sharp-eyed and a bit distant to them the entire trip, uttering no more than one or two words in their presence at a time. It was obvious she didn’t trust that they were telling her the truth, but she also didn’t seem to hold it against her hunters for sharing with them. Still, Llyn would’ve rather they worked together, instead of her keeping her distance. Ever since the Triumvirate meeting adjourned, he felt like so much was possible for him if he was only given the chance. Perhaps if Tala gave him a chance too, they could share some kind of common ground over their corresponding positions in their respective clans. Or perhaps not. Tala actually seemed good at her job. Llyn couldn’t say the same.

When no shifting dirt or the glow of searching eyes fell on them, he began to move again, creeping further and further from the campsite and further and further from the threat of detection. They traveled over the sunbleached tufts of wild grass that covered the Steppes, until in the distance, he saw rock formations that would lead them to the Diceni camp. Even though he was leading them, somehow he knew that it was the direction Sellarin intended to go.

It was an hour of constant moving before he figured enough time had elapsed for them to speak. He unhunched his back, stood up straight, and began to walk normally instead of continuing in a crouching jog.

“Can you tell me _now_ why we’re sneaking into the Diceni camp without Abersher’al?”

Sellarin dusted off her knees before standing up straight as well, following closely behind him, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really?” he replied honestly. Llyn thought they already accomplished what they needed to, and just had to ride in with Abersher’al to save the day. This subterfuge was perplexing.

“Think about it. If we go in with Abersher’al and their Ethinan, what’s gonna happen?” she questioned him. He shrugged.

“The Diceni will let your friend go?”

She let out a long sigh, “Oh, Llyn. You’re still one step behind on everything and thinking too small. Get bigger.”

“Bigger?” he was confused. Sel jogged out in front of him, then turned and faced him while she walked backwards.

“Yeah, real big! Because that’s what Clan Abersher’al is. Real big fish in a little tiny pond of the Dalish.”

“So are the Diceni,” he pointed out. She grinned and imitated firing a bow with her hands.

“Clean shot there, buddy. Abersher’al and the Diceni are the big fish. Maybe the _biggest_ fish. But two are different breeds who act like they're swimming in their own pond instead of sharing one with the rest of us.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

She swung her arms dramatically, “You’re still thinking too narrow! Dig real deep here. What do you know about the Diceni? I mean, what do you _really_ know?”

He frowned as he thought on it. What he knew was heard through second hand rumors, Elain’s bombastic declarations, and Warlord Den’s offhand comments. He’d have to piece it together based on that.

“Well, I know that Paeris and Warlord Threlen are both advocates of change, but have different methods,” he focused on the stars glittering above him as the pieces fit into place in his mind, “Threlen thinks we need to be self-sufficient but wants a standing army. Paeris wants the Dalish to be self-sufficient too, but wants to do it through trade contracts and resource management.”

“A good start, but deeeeeper,” she drew out the word to push him on.

“And that causes dissent in the clan?” he proposed, “A clear line down the center. Hunters can’t be turned into full soldiers if they are on rotation between working the land and guarding caravans. And Paeris can’t keep absorbing failing clans under Diceni’s banner without those fields being worked and those caravans guarded....and without him expanding in Lavellan’s hunting grounds for resources.”

Her mouth curved slightly, “Keep going.”

The pieces mashed together in his mind, the full picture not all there yet, but it was becoming less hazy.

“Threlen wants change, but he’s not interested in literal expansion, just a common cause among the clans. He’s probably got a lot of frustrated hunters doing double duty coming to him for a solution. So when he left to go help in Autini Valley, I’m guessing he took most of his loyal hunters with him.”

The curve on her mouth got wider and wider with each word.

“So that leaves those loyal to Paeris back on the Steppes. If there were dissenters like your friend, and if Paeris is as much like his sister as I remember, he’d have some system in place to make sure they’re not working against him while both he and Threlen are gone. Even just a few rumors could get the Council there whispering.”

“Yeah?” she asked him, the white teeth of her grin gleaming in the moonlight, “So, let’s take it back then. What would the Diceni do if we show up in broad daylight with Abersher’al and their Ethinan?”

Clearer now, but not quite the overall picture he should be seeing. He imagined his mind as an empty canvas, waiting for paint to show him what needed to seen.

“Loyalists to Paeris would probably move them so there was no evidence. Or already have them moved. Maybe their northern settlement?”

“Now we’re cooking,” she said proudly, “So we’ve got big fish Abersher’al coming in to free the voices dissenting against Keeper Paeris and ride out like liberators. What do they get out of that?”

He shrugged, but continued to play along, “Well, Elain said she’d owe the Blood of the Embers a debt if she honored her request. So whatever that is.”

“And what do you think it is?”

Llyn stopped walking and stood still for a moment while he went over the details in his mind. Each new clue was a brushstroke on his canvas, pulling together something much larger, less abstract. A reward from a scion for a mission like this would be no small matter, and knowing how shrewd Keeper Gherlanna was, she’d milk Elain’s goodwill dry. Another flick of the wrist, another color splashed against starkness, and his mind’s eye could start to discern what was happening here.

He thought back to Lavellan and what they had there that was worthwhile. He imagined walking through the camp, picking apart each detail as he passed it by. The halla herd was large, well kept, and useful. Master Vhannas’ weapons and armor were heavily coveted and the flames of his forge could be seen at all hours of the day. The yurts were clustered together in the bitter cold winters, and their textiles hung from the inside proudly. It was home, the only home he’d ever known, but the nostalgia and warmth he had for it wasn’t something that could translate to what Abersher’al wanted. How could they ever hope to get the sound of the Minanter in the morning, the taste of the wild strawberries from the mountain paths, the smell of the trees leading into Autini…

The trees.

“Cedar,” he said bluntly, “Cedar is all over Lavellan’s hunting grounds in and around Autini Valley. We use it for everything, and trade it with other clans in Nevarra and Antiva. Clan Abersher’al lives in the desert, and they trade for wood that they can’t get there. Keeper Gherlanna is going to push the Blood of the Embers to renegotiate trade contracts!”

“Match goes to Llyn!” Sellarin practically yelled, her arms swinging high in the air, “It always comes back around to the trade. Paeris wants more, and he’s eyeing the Autini Valley for himself. Abersher’al is going to jump at the chance to kill two birds with one stone: get a bigger cut of the cedar Lavellan is sourcing out, and take down Keeper Paeris so he doesn’t step on their bottom line. So two big fish are both circling around the same piece of bait, just waiting for their chance to hop on it.”

“Because Abersher’al doesn’t want Paeris to control the trade in the North and because Paeris wants the Diceni to absorb clans one by one until there’s a unified nation, and he needs resources to do that.”

Her grin she flashed now was full of pride, “Now you’re getting it.”

He smiled back at her, proud of his own conclusions. But then, a thought struck him.

“So we’re going to the Diceni’s northern settlement to get your friend? I don’t understand. Even if he’s not in the main camp, Abersher’al’s Ethinan would probably request permission to hunt to get to the bottom of it, like Warlord Threlen did after we almost lost against those mercs in Autini. Why do we have to do it ourselves?”

Sellarin’s grin faded, and she started to walk again, this time picking up her pace. He kicked up dust as he took some long strides to catch up to her. 

“Don’t you think the Maiden knew all this when she sent us?”

“Probably,” he answered honestly. Elain never did anything remotely altruistic without some other motive.

“Yeah. And if the Maiden knew what she was doing by pitting Abersher’al against the Diceni, she knew that Keeper Paeris would anticipate it too.”

Llyn remembered Paeris being smarter than his sister and made her jealous when they were growing up. He slumped his shoulders at the realization. Of course Paeris would anticipate this. Of course. He was baiting his own hook.

“I’d hazard a guess that Keeper Paeris knew she’d call on Abersher’al for help, and that they’d answer so they could stomp out his ambition once and for all. And he’d also know that Darvel and my friends would me more valuable dead than alive,” she explained solemnly, “Martyrs for the cause. I’m guessing he’d pin it on The Blood and the Maiden plotting together, then start a blood feud.”

His eyes widened in surprise, “A blood feud? But why?”

She kept looking straight ahead on the horizon, focused on their destination, “Easiest way to destabilize the Nevarran clans, frame the Maiden, and take power from all the scions. Then he’s in the strongest position to absorb all the clans in the North. Trade gets a lot easier when all clans pay tribute to Diceni.”

“Creators,” he breathed out, hardly able to believe Sellarin’s theory, “So we’re going in to get them out before Abersher’al confronts the Diceni, because as soon as they’re in their sights, they’ll get rid of your friends.”

“Yeah,” was all she could say.

The insidiousness of all this political scheming was unsettling. The Dalish Imperative was to uplift each other, support each other, survive, live free. Killing each other over trade agreements was something humans did. It was disgusting to him. He couldn’t sit by and let this occur.

“Don’t worry, Sel. We’ll get them out of there before anything can happen,” he stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. She looked at the hand apprehensively for a split second, before she patted it and smiled.

“Yep,” Sellarin turned back towards the far away rocky hills leading into the heart of the Steppes, letting his hand drop, and began walking again, “It’ll be good to see Darvel again.”

Llyn followed close behind her, his eyes on the horizon and his footsteps light, despite his fatigue and worry, “What are you going to do once we get him out?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “Probably go back home and take him with me. Maybe get reassigned. Don’t think ol’ Darvel is going to have the stomach to go undercover though. He was always a softy.”

“So that’s what you do, huh? Go between clans watching out for weird shit going on with trade agreements? Where are you originally from?” he was suddenly very interested in the life of this mysterious spy. He’d spent weeks with her now, but knew about as much about her life as he did when he first started. 

“Don’t know where I’m from. Don’t know a whole lot of things,” she knocked on her skull softly with her knuckles, “Got some bad amnesia from an accident when I was a teenager. Don’t even know my parents’ names…”

“You’re lying,” he laughed at her. The lie was so blatant it was nearly believable, but one thing he had learned from her is to never trust the first story.

“A little bit,” she looked over her shoulder and gave him a wink, “Maybe when we’re all done with this, I’ll give you the whole story. It’s a good story too! Lots of twists and turns, betrayals, and a shaved goat that I convinced a human was a halla and sold for fifty sovereigns. You should’ve seen him try to ride off on it.”

“One of those things that I’d have to see to believe?” he teased her, giving her a friendly nudge with his elbow. 

“Seeing is believing, Llyn,” Sellarin said in a sing-song voice, as she artfully dodged another nudge, “And I believe that I see the potential for a good spy under all those layers of dust on you.”

He paused at her compliment, “You...you really think so?”

“Sure. Might take some work, but I think you got what it takes. Some nerve, some ingenuity…” she stopped meaningfully, letting the tension and expectation build up, before she broke out in a wide smile, “And the balls to fight off a lurker all by yourself!”

He snorted at the joke, but felt the phantom sensation of the lurker’s teeth sinking into his leg. He rubbed his leg gently to break the spell, and even though the moment had been full of levity, there was a seriousness hanging over him that he couldn’t shake off as easily as his memory of the lurker. This mission from the start to the present had been nightmarish, full of everything he hated about the world and about himself, but somehow, he’d still come out of it better. There was something to take away from that. Had all the stress made him stronger? Or did seeing his efforts pay off give him that boost he needed to feel like he could win again?

Llyn wasn’t sure of the answer, but he felt different. Like he wasn’t being haunted all the time by the old, intrusive thoughts. Like he might be better than he imagined. Like he might be worthwhile. Like maybe it was time to start letting go of the stuff that was holding him back. Something had shifted in him over the time spent on this mission, and he knew getting away from the choking atmosphere of Lavellan’s Council’s influence at a lot to do with it. But there was more to it. Things he didn’t know if he could express properly.

“Hey,” he started, the anxiety beginning to swell in his gut a bit, but not so much as it would have before. Sellarin looked towards him expectantly.

“Thanks.”

She still smiled at him, but now it was filled with a subtle understanding of what he was trying to convey. For once, he didn’t have to explain himself.

“Sure thing, buddy.”

\---

It was late into the next night before they approached the northern settlement. They had traveled non-stop during the day, Sellarin leading them around the rocky outcrops to avoid the Diceni’s own scouts, and there was never a moment to take some time to catch their breath. There were potentially lives on the line, and it was crucial that they got to Darvel and the others before Abersher’al crossed over into the Diceni’s hunting grounds. They barely spoke more than two words, and when the sun set again and the star started to glitter in the vast sky of the Steppes, Llyn couldn’t find it in him to appreciate it. 

It was the glow of the hearths in the northern settlement that caught his eye instead. The smell of roasting game and the sounds of a lively conversation brought the evening to life, and hopefully, brought a distraction for the guards on patrol. They waited behind a large boulder just outside the southwestern side of the low, stone wall of the settlement, looking for an opportunity or a hint as to where their quarry could be hidden. Laborers chatting loudly passed in front of them unaware of he and Sellarin lying in wait, their skin dripping with water from a bathe in a nearby lake.

“Yeah! The Empress is dead! Can you believe it?” one said excitedly.

“Yeah, but they got a new shem Emperor anyways. For all this talk going ‘round about the Inquisitor helping us, it sure looks the same,” the first one’s friend answered more pessimistically, “Good thing our Keeper is looking out for us. When the world goes to shit, we’re going to be bringing in our best harvest yet…”

They kept walking past, engaged in their small talk and gossiping, and Llyn watched them round the corner of the entrance to the settlement itself. Several other laborers went the same path they did, idly discussing matters as they came up the path from the lake and sought out their dinners inside the wooden meeting hall that rose above all the yurts in the center of the settlement. Smoke bellowed out of a vent on top of the vaulted cedar roof, and he could see artisans and laborers entering the hall as the evening grew darker.

“Now’s the best time to move,” he whispered to Sellarin, “Where should we start?”

“Not sure. But if we wait for a bit, someone should be taking some food out of the hall. Even prisoners gotta eat,” she pointed out, and he nodded at the assessment. 

So they waited longer, and the music and laughter that came from the central meeting hall made Llyn sick for his own hearth back home in the Free Marches. It was late spring now, and the Minanter would be melted and flowing fast outside of camp. The birds would be singing from dawn to dusk, lilting songs about love and longing that only birds understood, but he couldn’t help but feel it in his own heart too. He’d listen to them under the tall trees, leaning against a trunk, chewing on the mouth of his pipe in between hits of the elfroot, and he’d find some kind of peace there. 

It’d been weeks since he had that kind of peace, and he missed it less than he expected, but in these long moments that they waited for a chance of tracking the dissenting hunters, Llyn found himself craving that peace fiercely. Perhaps it was the stars shining brightly overhead, or maybe it was the scent of game stew being boiled over the hearth, or maybe it was just the new parts of himself that he was discovering...maybe those new parts fit together with the old, and he longed for the whole. 

Or he was probably just overthinking things again. He shook his head to clear his mind, and set his sights back on the people going in and out of the hall. An hour passed, then another, and some people started to file outside and seek out their beds for the night. It seemed as if they might have to come up with another plan, until they saw a hearthworker, his face covered in the soot from the fires, leave the hall with an accomplice and three bowls filled to the brim with stew. They made their way slowly down the path that led into the settlement proper, then turned and walked southwards once they made it past the low walls. 

“This is it,” Sellarin whispered, and was off the ground and tracking them instantaneously. He slinked behind her, confirming they weren’t being followed. The approach was clear, as was their path ahead. It was time to hunt.

The hearthworkers kicked up dust on the dirt path winding down into the flat valley settled between two large rocky hills that offered protection for the settlement, and they creeped up into the trails near the rocks to stay out of sight. Sellarin knew the land intimately, having lived here for at least some extended amount of time by his observations, and following the workers was one of the simpler tasks Llyn had endured during this mission. 

They walked slowly but spoke animatedly about the state of the black rye the settlement was growing, about one of their children’s hunter training, about estimates to when the Warlord and the Keeper would return. Llyn listened and absorbed the information as best he could, though he doubted any use would come of it. This was just everyday gossip; small talk that resulted from comfortable relationships between clan members working together. 

He and Sellarin kept track of them in dead silence. Any slipping stone could give them away, and they had come too far now to lose it all. They pursued them for ten minutes or so, until they saw pushed up against the rocky hill opposite of them two inconspicuous yurts. They had the sun motif emblazoned on the canvas fabric walls that was native to the Diceni clan, and were flanked by two guards each. The guards stood in full armor, each holding polearms, their faces stern but lighting up in excitement as the hearthworkers approached. They smiled and shouted greetings to each other, then walked away from their posts to meet their meals. 

Sellarin grabbed his arm to get his attention, but Llyn already knew. This was it. And this was possibly their only chance to get in.

“It’s the treasury. They’ve probably got them locked inside. Stay on me.”

Sel sprinted ahead on the trail, and he followed closely behind, hoping that the guards were too occupied with their meal and gossip to notice the dirt they were kicking up. When the rocks began to rise higher and further from the bottom of the valley, they slid carefully down the side of the cliff wall, keeping their footing on protruding boulders until they made the descent into the small valley. 

They would need to cross over the flat valley and reach the other side of the flanking rock hills, and it would have to be done without hesitation. Llyn watched the guards and hearthworkers carefully, but they seemed so involved in their meal and talking, they hadn’t noticed the disruption of dirt and dust. 

“On three,” Sellarin warned him, and he nodded his agreement. He squatted down, ready to launch into a sprint at her word.

“One.”

A loud chuckle of laughter came from the group they needed to avoid. He centered his mind.

“Two.”

He tried not to think about getting caught. Tried to focus. Just get to the other side. Don’t think. Just run.

“Three!”

_Just run._

They both dashed as if they were possessed by spirits, arms pumping legs slamming against the dirt ground, the rock walls getting closer and closer with each desperate stride. Sellarin pulled ahead of him, and he felt as if there were eyes everywhere watching him fall behind, ready to pounce on him for failing again. He bit back his fear and pressed himself harder. His muscles ached and his sweat trailed down his forehead and into his eyes, but he’d make it. He had to.

_Just run._

The wall crept closer and closer and closer until it was all he saw, but Sellarin reached it first, and when she did, she pivoted, changing her direction abruptly, and diving behind a thick bush pressed against the stone. Llyn followed her lead, and crowded next to her, panting and trying his best to catch his breath. The cliff wall behind him was cool and solid, and he tried to focus on how it felt to center his breath. It helped enough, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that they made it, and they were one step closer to finishing this mission.

_“Did you hear that?”_

Or maybe not.

“Yeah, sounded like the rocks settling,” a guard answered the first one’s question, then pointed to the granite cliff they had just descended, “Looks like something moving up there.”

“We should probably look around.”

Llyn’s heart started to pound against his ribcage, panic settling in fast. The feeling of being watched intensified, and his breath came too fast now for him to catch it. Sellarin slapped her hand over his mouth, and pulled his head under her arm.

The three of the four guards separated from the hearthworkers who stood waiting with their bowls of stew, each going a different direction to search the grounds. One was rapidly approaching their position, and Llyn cried silently under Sellarin’s arm, the panic turning into full blown, gut-wrenching fear. He was going to get caught. He failed. He did it again. He was never going to end this.

Just as the Diceni guard’s dusty boots could be seen through the leaves of the bush, a lone coyote let out a howl. It was followed by another, then another, and another. The guard turned his attention to the direction of the pack, and Llyn and Sellarin were safe for the moment. 

“”Looks like the culprit!” one of the guards laughed, “Should we go out and chase them off?”

“You and Corhel do it. Me and Ino did it last time,” the guard closest to their position said before turning to head back to his waiting meal. The two ordered to do so broke off from the group and headed towards the call of the coyotes, while the other two went back to their food and their small talk. 

It was a relief, but Sellarin had no time to let him savor it. She loosened her grip on him, but pushed him to her left side, forcing him to crawl against the rock wall to avoid the detection of the remaining guards. It wasn’t far to the yurts, but Llyn felt every nerve in his body screaming at him, making him want to retreat and give up everything. But he couldn’t, and Sel forced him forward, never letting him stop to let his anxious thoughts take over. 

It only took a few moments to reach the space between the rock wall and the yurts, but Llyn felt as if he had been hunting for days. He realized that this wouldn’t even be the most difficult part. They still had to leave with the released prisoners, and moving two people had been hard enough. There was no time for hesitation however, and Sellarin lifted the backside of the canvas on the yurt, and pushed him underneath.

There was no hearth inside, or torches, but moonlight poured in from the vent at the top and shone light on everything inside. Llyn stood up and dusted himself off, looking around to take everything in. Sellarin was right. It was a treasury. It was stacked full of wooden chests filled with valuable items: things from the Dales, weapons, crates full of scrolls, pieces of ornate furniture, and even a chest of gold, but no people that he could see.

“They’re not here,” he said quietly, and Sellarin brought her finger to her lip to silence him. She lifted the canvas of the yurt once more, going underneath and leaving behind a room full of things, but not the one thing she was seeking, and he went after her. 

They scurried into the second yurt, and found much of the same. Stacks of treasures and valuables, all organized neatly for categorizing. But in this yurt, in the center, a lone chair stood with a figure slumped over in it. 

“ _Darvel!_ ” Sellarin whispered loudly, before crawling over to the chair. The figure there perked up, turning his head to meet the voice that called him. He smiled when he saw her.

“Sel…”

Sellarin pulled one of her daggers from her waist and swiftly cut through the ropes that secured Darvel to chair. He brought his hands forward, rubbing his wrists together, and let out a deep sigh of relief. Llyn joined Sellarin, watching Darvel intently as he settled into his new freedom, standing up and stretching his arms to loosen the tightness that had no doubtedly set in. His face was light and happy, and despite his predicament, a wide grin painted his face.

“Can’t believe you came back,” he said quietly to Sellarin. 

“Couldn’t leave you behind,” she replied just as quietly, “Not after everything.”

Llyn felt like an intruder in the moment between friends. He barely knew Sellarin, knew even less about Darvel, and despite all the weeks leading up to this mission, he understood that he was no spy, and that the bond they shared over their own mission was never something he was going to have. He waited patiently, if awkwardly, for the moment to pass, knowing full well that the wholeness he sought wasn’t going to be found here.

“Was almost hoping you didn’t come, Sel,” Darvel’s words cut through his thoughts, and he was suddenly unsettled.

“Why? You know I couldn’t leave my big softie,” she responded gaily, but there was something amiss.

There were footsteps, light but fast, and their shadows moved swiftly underneath the wicker entrance of the doorway leading into the yurt. They seemed to come from all directions all around them, and the clank of metal against leather was unmistakeable. More guards, heavily armed, and they were surrounding the yurt. The wind began to pick up as well, howling loudly as it blew through that valley. There was a storm coming.

“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath as one of them fumbled with the ties on the wicker hanging of the entrance, trying to get inside. There would be no savior coyote to distract them this time. The mission failed.

Sellarin, desperate to still make it out of this, grabbed Llyn by the shoulder and hooked her arm in Darvel’s, “C’mon! We have to get out of there!”

But Darvel wouldn’t budge. 

She stood in shock, her eyes wide and her mouth open, as her friend stared at her blankly while the guards unlocked the entrance and poured inside the treasury yurt, their weapons pointed directly at their throats. 

“Why?” was all she could say to Darvel, who stood stoically and watched as she and Llyn were surrounded. He wanted to do more. He wanted to yell and bellow at Darvel, demand he explain himself, force him to apologize to Sellarin for all they went through, but this time they were truly defeated. There was no escaping this. He waiting quietly, sweat dripping off his brow, as the steel of the Diceni hunter’s polearms hovered inches from his neck.

“Because he’s a true son of Clan Diceni.”

The question was answered for him by a woman who pushed back the wicker entrance and joined the hunters that crowded the treasury. She was tall, gaunt, dark hair piled high on her head and wide eyes, with pupils so dark they looked black. Her mouth turned down naturally, with creases from age and stress at the corners that sprinkled her eyelids as well. Llyn recognized her from visits years ago. 

It was Hellan, Keeper Paeris’ wife. 

Darvel bowed his head to her in deference as she approached her quarry, but she did not acknowledge the sign of respect. She only had eyes for Llyn and Sellarin, and her gaze was as sharp as glass. She reminded him of Warlord Threlen in that regard, with her judgmental features and discerning looks, but there was an edge to her that Llyn didn’t see in him. Her obvious cunning made that edge dangerous.

“You southerners really do think you have a monopoly on information, don’t you?” she asked Sellarin acidly, her voice dripping in venom, “You’re trained in the human art of spying, learned to play the game as if you were some Orlesian noble, and suddenly you believe no one can see through your obvious attempts at subterfuge. You truly believe us northerners incapable of understanding your silly plots and games. ”

She stopped in front of Sellarin and Llyn, bringing her fingers up close to her face, then picking her nails idly, “Well, my dear, you should know you didn’t fool anyone. I had you pegged from the moment you transferred here. It was almost too simple to assign Darvel to you and weed out your purpose. Do you honestly think we’re all fools?”

Sellarin said nothing, but simply stared at Darvel, who stood impassively while Hellan pressed into them. She hadn’t known. She had trusted him. And he had led her right into a trap.

Hellan laughed lightly at her lack of response, “It’s strange to see you so quiet, Sellarin! Where are your stories now? Where are grand tales of all your deeds? Have they all left you now that you’ve been exposed for what you are?”

Sellarin turned her head slowly away from Darvel, and set her gaze squarely on Hellan in front of her.

“I’m really not one to boast...” she said slyly, a smile spreading across her mouth, though it lacked any mirth. It earned her a few chuckles from the hunters who surrounded them, all ones who knew her and what she was like, but Hellan did not seem amused. 

“Enough of this,” she swiftly pulled a knife from the belt that sat on her waist, then lunged towards Sellarin with preternatural speed. 

Llyn wasn’t sure why he did what he did. It all happened so fast. He supposed these things always happened that way though. In the heat of any battle, you never really think. You just do. Everything moves so slowly, and your mind becomes so clear, that you can see every move as it happens, though there is little you can ever do to stop it. It was a life Llyn was familiar with, and one he never hesitated to act on. He may have failed in many things, may have been hopeless in many regards, but he was a hunter and his instincts were something to be proud of. 

So he followed them. He moved in front of Sellarin as fast as he could, slamming into her to push her out of the way, and for all his effort, felt a sharp, piercing pain emanate from his back. He’d been stabbed before, had an arrow embedded in this thigh, even lost a chunk of his ear. But this pain was new. And he knew it was unlike he had ever felt before, and unlike any that he would feel again. 

He collapsed on the ground, unable to move for the pain, unable to even cry out, and the chaos that erupted around him seemed to be far, far away. The blood in his mouth was metallic and strong, and the dirt in his eyes burned and clouded his vision. He decided it would just be easier to close his eyes, so he did. 

The darkness there was engulfing. It swallowed him whole, consuming him, stopping his breath, and making his spirit float, lost and dazed, forever damned to wander in that lightless void for all his failures. He had failed the Maiden, had failed his friend, failed to be the leader that he needed to be, and more than anything, he had failed himself. He would never get to be whole. 

When Llyn closed his eyes, it would be for the last time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Llewellyn


	44. Recall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three stories of three women; one who hadn't expected it, one who allowed it, and one who saw it coming, but could do nothing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sellarin belongs to tumblr user @nowerewolves, small mention of the Banal'ras a/k/a Revas, who belongs to tumblr frut @drathe, Tala and Ellya belong to tumblr salt bro @calyah. @calyah is also my wonderful, amazing beta who always has the best advice. This chapter was a long time coming (2 weeks late!), but it's finally here. I hope everyone enjoys it.

She hadn’t expected it.

Sellarin expected everything. You never go in thinking you know the situation, or on the assumption that you know how it will go. She thought she had planned for it. She expected resistance, she expected a chase, she expected a dash of adventure and sleight of hand to miraculously pull herself out of another tight spot in the nick of time. That’s how it went. She’d been doing this long enough to know how to escape just about any situation that goes ass end up, and kept all her fingers and toes for it. It was a source of pride. She was the best, and it had always been good enough.

She hadn’t expected Darvel to turn this on its head. 

They’d been working alongside each other for four years now, thick as spit, partners in anything and everything. It took two years of knowing him before she started picking up on hints that he was dissatisfied with the progress Keeper Paeris was making in the clan. Months of gentle needling, weeks of quiet discussions on long watches, and another year before she recruited him. She may have been bombastic at times, but she had been careful. More than careful. Downright cautious to a fault. There was no room for mistakes in this job, no room for second guesses. And she thought she had mastered that.

But Llyn’s blood poured out onto the rugs covering the dirt floor of the yurt, and it didn’t look like he was going to get up.

Hellan looked like she’d seen a demon walking in front of her. She backed away from him shakily, dropping the knife in her hand. It made an audible thump when it hit the ground, louder than it should be as no one seemed to want to say anything. They were in shock; their eyes were wide and they rapidly exchanged questioning glances, from one to another to another, then falling onto the trembling Hellan. It told Sellarin all she needed to know.

She had not planned this. No one was supposed to get seriously hurt here. She was lunging at her with a knife, but probably to embed it in her shoulder or arm or even her leg to keep her from escaping. It probably wasn’t even necessary, but Hellan always was one to go with overkill. In all her time with the Diceni, Sellarin had seen it happen over and over again. An escalating response betraying the fact that she had something to prove. The Keeper’s wife didn’t like living in the shadow of her family.

Llyn stopped moving though. Not even a twitching muscle or the subtle rise and fall of his chest. His mouth was covered in his own blood. It was too late for any healing, and whatever Hellan had planned might as well have fallen into to the darkest pit in the Anderfels. There was no coming back from this. Llyn wasn’t coming back from this. 

I’m sorry, Llyn, were the thoughts, and she had to fight the tears from welling up in her eyes.

But there was no time to mourn him now. Hellan messed up, and was going to lash out like a wild animal. Make even more mistakes then try to cover them all up. Sellarin couldn’t stick around for it. She had to get out. Without the kid who gave up his life for hers. A damned tragedy.

The yurt was part of the clan’s treasury, and was more permanent than the ones in the main bulk of camp. It had two cedar beams on either side of the room to secure it through the seasons, one close enough to her that if she was quick, she’d make short work of it and the whole thing would come down. 

The shock of Llyn’s stabbing, the deduction of the situation, and her plan to escape happened within a split second; years of training, years of conditioning, years of simply watching paid off, and no matter how long a game Keeper Paeris liked to play, it was all too clear that his players panicked if any part of the plan went sour. He wasn’t as flexible as her, and she would use that to her advantage. Both physically and mentally, in this case.

She dropped into a squat and swung her leg wide, taking out the beam and bringing down the yurt’s ceiling in one fell swoop. The time that had all but stopped in the few heartbeats after Llyn was stabbed restarted, and yells from the hunters and Hellan came from behind her. But Sellarin never tried to look back; especially not when she was positive the people back there would give chase. She dove to the nearest corner of the yurt, lifted the heavy canvas just enough to slip under, then rolled out into the dusty valley beyond. 

“Get her!” Hellan shouted from under the caved in yurt, but the hunters fumbled under the thick material. 

Sellarin didn’t wait for them to get back into formation. She took off towards the surrounding hills, betting on her agility to navigate the rocky passes and put space between herself and her pursuers. There was no looking back now. The dust she kicked up in her sprint would leave a trail for them to follow, but if she could just stay ahead, it wouldn’t matter. 

She approached the northeastern path leading into the foothills; it was smooth and clear from years of use, hunters and herders alike going through the trails leading from one end of the clan’s hunting grounds to another. There was no way she’d get ahead if she just ran on a well used path, so she veered off-trail, scaling the rocky hills swiftly by grappling exposed tree roots and large jutting stones. Within moments, she had reached a higher plateau. Sellarin pulled herself over the edge, then took off in a run again, ascending the steep hills faster than she had done in her entire time with Clan Diceni. 

“Drop your armor and get up there!”

It was Darvel ordering the hunters below her as they unsuccessfully tried to catch up to her by taking the winding trails. She heard the heavy clang of metal pieces hitting the hard stone, and grunts punctuated by falling earth as they attempted to climb up the same way she had come. 

Sellarin knew they wouldn’t make it in time. Warlord Threlen might have trained them to be soldiers on a battlefield, but the hunters of Clan Diceni were not suited for long pursuits. She was betting her entire life on it. There was still no time to look back, and she pressed forward, seeing the peak of the northeastern face of the rocky outcrop. 

She slid to a stop as she approached the edge of the face, the dirt and pebbles at her feet falling down the cliffside of the outcrop. When she looked over the side to watch the debris clatter to the bottom of the hills, she took a deep gulp at the steepness of the descent. But the thumping of feet hitting dirt was getting closer and closer to her, and well...Sellarin couldn’t look back. Not again. Never again.

Swallowing in a deep breath as the hunters finally scrambled up to the peak of the rocky hilltops, Sellarin steeled her nerves and willed her body to become weightless and invincible. It wasn’t going to do one damn bit of good but now wasn’t the time to be throwing faith out with the bathwater. She peered once more over the side as the hunters closed in on her, then let her body do the rest of the work.

She threw herself over the side of the cliff face, despite the steepness, plummeting into a freefall for a few feet, before hitting the loose shale on the face opposite the one she ascended and slid into a roll. The shale rock was impossible to get footing in, despite her attempting to dig in her heels. All it did was send sharp stones up into her feet and legs, and she was going to need those for more running. Her clumsy descent slowed as she approached a small cliff plateau, and reaching out, she grabbed the nearest piece of stone or vegetation to stop herself before she rolled over that too.

Luck looked down on her, and she hooked her hand onto a dead tree branch embedded in the soil under the shale. It slowed her to a stop, and she was able to do a controlled slide down to the plateau. There was rock dust in her hair, in her eyes, in her mouth, in every place it could possibly be, and her sides throbbed in pain from the descent, but she couldn’t dwell. Her freedom was so close, she just need to make it a few more feet…

“Sellarin, stop! I’m trying to protect you!”

Darvel looked over the edge of the rocky peak that she just slid down with the grace of a drunk tusket, a last ditch effort to get her to give up her escape. His voice was loud and echoed in the empty valley below them, but she’d never listen to him again. He had done the unthinkable to her, and because of him, a good kid was probably dead. She had been caught off guard, and Sellarin never made the same mistake twice. 

As she approached the edge of the next plateau, seeing a much easier descent below her into the valley, she took the time to turn around and look now. Darvel stood flanked by faltering hunters who didn’t want to make the leap like she did, his arms crossed over his barrel chest and his face turned down in a frown. The frown was something she had grown accustomed to when they were friends; a sign of his disapproval, but also his begrudging willingness to go along with her plans that would inevitably come.

_“I swear to the All Father, you are going to get your ass handed to you one of these days if you keep using the double daggers instead of a polearm like a respectable hunter.”_

_Sellarin sheathed her daggers at her waist, then held out a hand to help Darvel up off the ground, “You respectable hunters sure do eat a lot of dirt.”_

_He grabbed onto her outreached hand and yanked himself up, then dusted off his armor, “You got lucky that time.”_

_“Luck had nothing to do with it,” she laughed, “I’m just that good.”_

_He shook his head and laughed along, “Good at showing off, I’ll give you that. Threlen’s gonna want to put you in the Ethinan for sure.”_

_They trekked off the training grounds outside of the main camp for their afternoon meal. Hunters on earlier shifts passed by them, eager to get their weapons practice in, and Sellarin didn’t blame them. The day was beautiful; bright sun, no wind, and barely any frost on the ground. The smell of food cooking on the hearth made her stomach grumble, but she’d live through it if mean some more time with her daggers in her hands and her opponents eating dirt._

_“I’m not friends with his kids. No way he’s putting me with the scouts,” she scoffed at Darvel’s suggestion, “I’m just like you; stuck doing guard rotations until the next skirmish.”_

_Darvel’s shoulders seemed to slump at the statement, and the grin on his face faltered. He got quiet, and their jovialness after their training ground match evaporated._

_“Something wrong?” she probed him, though she knew exactly what was wrong. She’d seen it in other hunters in the months after she arrived on the Steppes, but Darvel represented the best of them. Diceni-born, a strong warrior, a decorated hunter, the best the Clan had to offer, but somehow perpetually left behind in favor of less talented, less battle-hardened individuals being lifted to higher positions over him._

_It was becoming all too common since her arrival, and there were rising tensions between factions. The Warlord keep them busy and well-trained, but he had no qualms about passing over experience for what he saw as ‘potential’ when choosing superiors. The Keeper kept them escorting caravans with little to show for it, and put them to work on the growing fields of rye in between missions. There was frustration all around, and the whispers she expected were becoming louder and louder with each passing week._

_“You’re really talented, Sel. There’s no reason someone like you shouldn’t be doing scout work. I don’t know what the Warlord is thinking,” he admitted to her. It was a big deal. Darvel wasn’t one to complain about the leadership of the clan. He was the ideal._

_“I could say the same about you,” she pointed out, “You’ve gotten commendations from the last two operations on the borders of Tevinter. And that arrow in the chest too! No reason you should still be on guard duty.”_

_“Guess the Warlord doesn’t see me being a good leader,” he looked down at the ground as they walked towards the common pavilion where the afternoon meal was laid out, “Guess I’ve messed up too much.”_

_“Or maybe it’s his leadership that’s messed up.”_

_She’d known him long enough, ingratiated herself with him and their friends, spend hours in the gathering halls drinking mead and wine with them, sharing the woes of being a Diceni hunter. It was time to test how deep in she was. Bend a little bit, tug on the twine holding the hook she had metaphorically baited, see if she’d caught any fish._

_“I don’t know,” he rubbed the back of his head, “He’s been our Warlord ever since I got my vallaslin. He was my dad’s Warlord. I think he knows what he’s doing.”_

_“Maybe,” she kicked a loose stone from under her foot, “But maybe he’s also not thinking clearly because him and the Keeper are at odds.”_

_“You think so?”_

_She shrugged, “Could be. Heard the Council meetings are gettin’ tense. No one wants to give up ground, but something’s gotta give eventually. We can’t sustain things the way they’re going now.”_

_Darvel’s walk slowed as he thought about the ideas she was handing to him, like intricately wrapped little presents. It was merely alluring bait to see if he’d bite, though. Watch the fish pick and nip at the worm, but don’t pull until they bite down._

_“Yeah, I know. And...I don’t know, he’s been Warlord a long time. Could mean he’s experienced, but could also mean he’s stuck in his ways,” he began to open up, and Sellarin’s mouth quirked slightly into a smile. He was wrapping his mouth around that bait, tasting it, taking a chance. And she was taking a chance too, she knew. It was always a gamble on who you slipped information to, no matter how good of a mark they might seem._

_“He does seem like the stubborn type,” she posited, letting that bait linger in front of him._

_“Beyond stubborn…” he answered absently, then sighed heavily, “I don’t know, Sel. Sometimes I wish I was one of Hellan’s friends so I wasn’t stuck here all the time. Sowing a field in the down season wasn’t what I had in mind when I picked my apprenticeship.”_

_“What did you have in mind?”_

_He frowned slightly at the question, “Had in mind I’d be a lead hunter by now, helping the Warlord and serving my clan. I wanted blood under my nails, not dirt.”_

_He was biting down on that bait, and she felt the tug on her lifeline. This was it. This is where she’d start. Darvel was the ideal...in everything._

_She gave him a slap on the back, “There’s always time. You just gotta have some guts...and some perspective.”_

_Sellarin gave him a wink, then entered the brightly lit pavilion where their afternoon meal waited while he followed behind her. She wouldn’t pull her catch in yet; it was way too early. If you reel it in all at once, your line was bound to break. She’d keep giving him tastes of something greater, induce that doubt in his mind, and in time, she won’t even have to tug; he’ll come to her side all on his own._

She hadn’t expected it.

Staring up at him one last time, etching his features in her mind so she wouldn’t forget, she felt a heaviness in her gut like a stone. Years of memories flooded her mind in a second, and small, innocuous things added into the bigger picture. Things she should’ve seen in the moment that could’ve tipped her off, but only came now in a useless retrospect. She hadn’t expected it, but she should’ve. 

The stone in her gut was guilt, she supposed. Llyn didn’t deserve the knife.

She saw Darvel yelling above her, barking some orders to the hunters like a seasoned commander, and though she tuned his voice out, sickened by it now, everything suddenly all made sense. Like pieces of a puzzle, it all fell into place in her mind, and the disappointment that washed over her was palpable. As she watched the hunters fall back to the path that led down the steep cliffside, she realized the same thing got to him that got to most people: impatience. He wanted that commanding position more than she anticipated, and he had trampled over her to get it. She wouldn’t fault him for the greed of wanting something better, but he could’ve waited. If he’d just gone with their plans…

Sellarin sighed, her confidence unusually subdued, and met eyes with Darvel once more before she stepped off the edge of the plateau. She heard him call her name again, but it might as well have come from the bottom of the ocean.

The drop was less steep this time, though she tumbled and descended just as quickly, but it didn’t matter. She reached the bottom of the cliffside in a cloud of rubble and dust and pain, stood up, righted herself, then made for the horizon. The hunters were too far behind now to catch up. There was nothing else to stop her. Nothing slowing her down now but the new weight on her soul.

Sellarin headed into the direction of the rising sun cresting over the horizon. She wouldn’t look back. Not again.

\----

_“You don’t have to go, you know.”_

_Paeris sat at his collapsible desk off to the side of their yurt, scribbling away at some important missive while Hellan sat on their cot, repairing a seam on one of their son’s tunics. He didn’t look up at her as she attempted to talk to him, and it frustrated her. She hated when he prioritized his work over her. It made her feel lesser, and Hellan was so tired of feeling lesser._

_“Yes, I do. This matter will not be settled without my intervention,” he spoke the words briskly, dipping his quill in more ink, then returning it to the parchment in front of him, “The Maiden’s judgment is too critical to leave up to your father.”_

_“But you’ll be calling a High Council. You won’t even be judging her yourself,” she argued pointedly, “It’s unnecessary.”_

_“There are more things at play than my sister’s condition. You know this. It is integral that I am present at Lavellan’s Council,” he chastised her, still not deeming it necessary to look up. The_ scratch scratch _on the parchment began to grate on her nerves._

_“It’s not integral. You just want to make a show of it so that you get the accolades while I sit here on the Steppes, doing all the work. Nothing is guaranteed to work and I will have to clean up the messes if it doesn't go as planned.”_

_"It will work. Darvel is hungry for the title as Threlen's Second, and the pieces are in place for it to happen," still he did not look up, "And Hearthmatron Remada has already assured me she can get the Triumvirate to sway in the direction we need them to go. Clan Abersher’al will come."_

_"That's even if the spy escapes and goes to Lavellan! Or if Elain decides to even do anything! I could be here for however many weeks all alone, once again, waiting for something to happen that never will," she answered hotly._

_"It will happen," he assured her, but his work on his desk still held his attention, "My sister will send the spy to Abersher'al for help and plan on pitting them against our clan while I am gone to undermine me. She will not be able to resist. The Maiden stands to lose everything, if I must remind you."_

_She frowned deeply at his patronizing tone, "You don't need to remind me of anything. It still doesn't erase the fact that you are making me do this alone, again, while you play the face of The People."_

_He chuckled at the accusation, “You fought me so hard to be part of this, and now you complain? You’re never satisfied.”_

_She put the tunic down and gripped the edge of the cot, digging her fingers in the soft furs that hung over the side, “I shouldn’t have had to fight you for this. I’ve been uplifting you since we met, giving up everything so that you can enact your dreams while I play the dutiful wife, and all you’ve done is throw me a bone when I become too disruptive. I’m not a dog to be fed your scraps.”_

_He laid the quill down this time, gently, carefully so as not to drip ink on his work. Paeris was always so immaculate._

_"What more do you want from me, Hellan? I'm entrusting you with the most important part of this entire play. If you fail, then the walls in which I am building the temple of our future will come crumbling down and it will all have been in vain. Is that a scrap? Is that something only worthy of some emaciated dog?"_

_She dropped her gaze to the ground at his words, knowing they were hollow and baseless, but knowing she was not clever enough to argue them. It was why she was always relegated to some menial task that he knew was impossible to ruin. He did not trust her; he did not trust anyone, truth be told. Paeris was a man of confidence, but he put none in others._

_"I know it's not as important as you make it sound," she managed to reply, her eyes still downcast, "Nothing I ever do is important. Especially not to you."_

_Paeris' chest heaved in a great sigh, and he pushed away from his small desk and walked to her. Even his walk was imposing though, and no matter how much she wanted to fight him and scream how wrong he was for treating her like a feckless child, she knew it was not a fight she would win._

_He sat next to her on the cot and gently took her hands in his. She shuddered at the gesture, knowing she had already lost, and knowing that she would gladly allow it to happen if he heaped his praise and tenderness on her. And he knew it too. Her husband was many things, but genuine was not one of them. If only she had known when they were first married, perhaps things would be different._

_"Ma vhenan. You are the most important person in my life," he stroked the tops of her hands with his thumbs, then gently lifted them to his mouth to kiss the tips of her fingers, "You're the mother of my children. My greatest defender. My confidant. Why must you play these games instead of accepting that I am placing my trust in you?"_

_"You neglecting me is not a game, Paeris," she said softly, already overwhelmed, "I must fight for that trust with every breath. You do not give it up easily."_

_"Should I? Have I not been obstructed at every turn? Your father promised me prestige and power when I came to the Diceni, and I have received nothing but dissent. Threlen crushes my ideas and humiliates me as he tries to put me in my place, your brother goes along with whatever your father says, and you are relegated to a voiceless seat warmer in the Council. My trust has been shaken. I cannot give it away so freely again."_

_"You're punishing me for the deeds of my family. I have been nothing but supportive since your arrival! Who brought the artisans and halla herders under your banner? Who organized the farmhands into a viable voice in the Council? Who raised your children and lifted your name when you were not present for either?" the questions came fast and nearly frantic, an eager ache to prove herself again overtaking her. She loathed that he made her feel this way, "It was always me, Paeris. It was always me."_

_He set her hands back down in her lap, then brought his own to the sides of her head, cupping her jaw gently, "I know. And it is why I trust you with this. It is too important to leave in anyone else's hands."_

_Paeris kissed her lips softly, tenderly, a quiet poison that she would consume happily and allow to slowly kill her._

_"You have been the champion to my cause, and your heart wants what mine wants, yes?"_

_She nodded silently, closing her eyes and leaning her cheek into his palm. He rewarded her with another kiss, this one giving her taste of things even sweeter than poison as his tongue slipped out of his mouth ever so slightly, grazing her lips._

_"Then understand why I must go and why I leave our goals in your very capable hands."_

_She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to her, desperate for his approval, his validation. There was nothing she wanted more than for his words to be true, though she knew they were not. For however much he tried, he still hid himself away from her and from everyone else. Paeris trusted no one, knew no one, and in turn, no one knew him. She was just as much as a pawn in his grand game as anyone else, being moved around the board while she longed for something more. Still, she let the poison course through her veins, a wicked burning that bit at her heart, and kissed him back with desperation._

_"I need you, Hellan. I need you," he whispered against her skin before they fell into the warm furs of their cot together._

_He did not need her, but once again, he would pretend for her sake. And once again, she would try to believe it._

"Sellarin got away," Darvel panted out, sweat dripping from his brow, and his face red from exertion, "I've sent some Ethinan after her, but you might as well consider her gone. We aren't going to see her again."

Hellan stared down on the dead body of the Lavellan scout she dragged out of the collapsed yurt. His blood drained into the sands as the pinkish hue of the sun rising washed over him. No light from the Father of the Father could extinguish his paleness, the cold touch of Death. She bent over and shut his eyelids all the way so the glassy, empty stare would not haunt her.

She had killed him, though. It would not go away so easily as shutting one's eyes.

"I don't suppose we will," she finally answered Darvel dully, "And now we have a dead Lavellan on our hands. Do you recognize him?"

"Their head Ethinan, Llewellyn. Part of the Maiden's inner circle. He will be missed."

"Of course he will," every word out of her mouth felt hollow, empty. Tiny little capsules of meaning but held nothing inside. This was a menial task Paeris had entrusted with her because he knew it would be difficult to mess up. And yet, here she stood, as hollow as her words, a failure and a murderer. The huntress she was in her youth would be aghast, ashamed, even repulsed by her misdeeds. Oh, to be that woman again.

"The Keeper had anticipated the Maiden sending her Banal'ras for this mission," he mentioned, breaking her from her thoughts.

"I warned him that she would not. The Keeper underestimates how much she cares for him," she answered flatly, "And overestimates how easily people will fall into his trap."

"And overestimates his own people's abilities, apparently," Darvel added tersely. Her ears flattened against her head and her face contorted in anger. The insinuation was not subtle, and she would not endure his quiet accusation.

"It was a mistake! We both knew the skill of the spy. She needed to be apprehended at all costs! We agreed wounding her would aid that greatly!" she chastised him through bared teeth.

"We didn't agree on gloating about knowing everything about her plans, though. Especially since I only made the Keeper aware a few months ago," he pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest, "That was all you."

"Watch your tongue, Darvel," her anger made her voice cold, sharp, "Or I will have it cut out. Your entire position in this clan is dependent on my goodwill. I was the one who suggested that you could be of use when my husband wanted you punished for your treason."

It was a lie, but she refused to be diminished by some no-name hunter. She’d worked too hard for too long to let this all fall down now, but her hands still shook. And they were covered in blood.

Darvel merely shrugged, obviously not threatened by her words, "Hope he has some lenience left over for when he finds out what you did."

“Enough. You are walking a dangerous line. The hunters and the Warlord might accept insubordination from you, but I will not,” she warned him darkly, then pointed down to the body, “Get him cleaned and wrapped. He will have to be sent back to Lavellan to be buried. This was a mistake, but his remains shouldn’t have to suffer it.”

“And what do you plan on doing to pull this together?”

His voice was becoming intolerable; the winds whipping at her skirts and dust blowing in her face were intolerable as well. Every sensation impacting her body was too much for her to handle in the moment, and all she wanted to do was return to the camp and hold her children in her arms. They would soothe her heart; they would fill her nostrils with the scent of their youth instead of the decay of death. 

But Darvel was not wrong to ask. This situation was quickly spiraling out of control, and she had no one to blame but herself. Had she just apprehended Sellarin immediately, had she just kept her mouth closed, had she not tried to prove to herself she could match the political maneuvering move for subtle move…

Hellan settled her mind before panic overtook her. This was still salvageable. She was still in charge here. She was still worthwhile, not a failure, not just a the child-bearer to the Keeper for the mage-heirs of the Dalish. She was more. Her father raised her to be better, to strive for the best, and though he had disappointed her time and again in playing favorites with Aneth’ail, she would not allow herself to be the lesser. 

Wiping her bloodied hands over her skirts, she stared Darvel down, “I will handle it. Do as I asked. His body must be taken care of. _Respectfully._ The goal was to cause a divide between the Blood of the Embers and the Maiden, but if we improperly care for this scout’s body, they will band together and get the Last Breath involved.”

Darvel bent over the scout and grunted, “And we’re trying to divide the scions, not give them common cause, right? I’ll treat him as if he were my own brother.”

“Good. He was Lavellan, but he was also a hunter once, like us. Give him all due rights.”

“What’s after that?” he asked as he situated the scout on his shoulders, then stood up with a groan.

“Once that’s finished, you’ll clean yourself up and be ready to stand with the other hunters as we confront Clan Abersher’al. Nothing has changed but the narrative, and that was never up to you.”

“Whatever you say,” he began to walk away from her, his body weighed down by Lavellan’s Ethinan, and she watched the back of his head with malice.

She had gone too long without raising her voice in command. The hunters no longer respected her as someone who had been one of them, and her orders were followed only reluctantly and only after tenuous questioning. Too much of her time had been spent lifting Paeris’ name instead of her own, and now she was paying for it. The authority she held was the joke across the clan, and Darvel’s flippancy had only proven that. 

The plans had gone awry, and she had made mistakes, but she was no wilting plant of a wife. Her mind was flexible, and her tongue would do her bidding to turn this around. This was a mistake, yes, but now it was also an opportunity to receive the recognition she deserved. The _respect_ she deserved. The Keeper, her brother, her father, Darvel and the hunters, all of them...they would see the lioness hidden under the cloak of the pampered cat that they all thought she was.

Hellan made her way back to the main camp alone, her body slightly swaying with the wind as she plotted the triumph she knew she had in her. Paeris had said he trusted her with this, knowing full well he did not mean it, but she would make him recognize her for the force she was. 

\---

_“I told you this was a trap. Told you that you should’ve just sent them away and be done with it!”_

_Tala packed her spare knife and a thin rope into the traveling bag aggressively as she ranted to her partner, angry that the Triumvirate had fallen right into what she knew was some petty scheme. The Maiden was plotting again, and now The Blood and all of Abersher’al would get caught in the crossfire. She drew the leather ties of her bag tightly shut and huffed over her preparation for the mission. It wasn’t enough that they were walking into the unknown; now, she was tasked with leading the Ethinan there._

_“You know I can’t make decisions like that, Tala,” Ellya replied to her gently from across their pavilion, where she brushed an ivory comb through her long hair, “This isn’t a dictatorship. I had no choice but to present the dilemma to my peers.”_

_“Yeah, and some good that did. Gherlanna is making an example and is going to bring war on our heads, all because you didn’t want to make a decision yourself,” she knew the truth was more complicated, but Tala always had difficulty processing her emotions. Unfortunately, Ellya would have to bear it tonight._

_It was easier for her in the field. Out in the sand dunes, there was no emotional attachment, no second guessing, no doubts. She trusted her eyes, she trusted her ears, she trusted the heat of the sun to tell her the time of day, she trusted the smell of moisture on the air to tell her when she was close to home. There was nothing to process out there in the hunting grounds. It was all instinct._

_“The Keeper is only reacting this way because of the Diceni meddling. It has everyone on edge,” Ellya stood up from her stool and set her comb down on the table. She walked over to Tala and smoothed her hands down her arms gently to soothe her frustration, “This was all a pot ready to boil over. The boundaries of our hunting grounds and the Diceni are already tenuous, and if our tradelines through the Silent Plains are interrupted, the lifeline to the clan is interrupted too. Gherlanna is feeling the pressure to do something about Paeris and this tension in the trade routes.”_

_Tala wasn’t convinced, “And no one seems to care anymore that this is all a trap? Everyone’s so concerned with saving face that they aren’t seeing the bigger picture. The Maiden is playing games, her brother is playing games, and now you’re playing them too!”_

_Ellya laid her head on her shoulder with a sigh, and Tala caught a whiff of the soft scent of her hair: Sylaise’ herbs and oil she combed into the deep waves. It made her soften a little as tiny memories of their time together creeped into her mind, and she brought her arms around to set them on her partner’s waist._

_“I have a duty to uphold, ma lath. It’s not easy for me to swallow it sometimes, but I made my oaths,” Ellya whispered to her, and she leaned over and kissed the crown of her head that glowed almost as red as the Hearth in the light of the evening, “Elain is my friend. I still trust her, even if the situation is becoming very questionable. She would never undermine her closest allies.”_

_“She’s desperate,” Tala countered, “And so are these spies she sent. They just happened to say the right words to get Gherlanna’s temper stoked. Now, your aunt and the Maiden will pull you down with them as they walk right into whatever machinations Paeris is planning.”_

_Ellya lifted her head and looked up at her, worry settled in her glistening eyes and the deep set of her furrowed brows, “Is that what all this is about? You’re afraid of me taking the fall for this if it goes wrong?”_

_She drew her closer to her, comforted by the warmth of her body and the warmth of her heart, “Of course I am. I’m heading into Creators know what kind of trap, and you’ll be here without me, vulnerable and alone, with no way for me to protect you. I’m afraid of something happening to you, and I’m afraid of what we’ll find waiting for us on the Steppes.”_

_“You make it all sound so dire.”_

_Tala gave a small chuckle, “I have to, vhenan. It’s my job.”_

_Ellya touched her lips gently to hers, making Tala close her eyes in contentment, “You know that I can protect myself just fine. And you know that you are very good at your job. Whatever you encounter in Diceni territory will be nothing for you to handle. I understand your fears, but I also know that the trust the Triumvirate has put in you --that I have put in you -- is not misplaced.”_

_She reached out and entwined her fingers in Ellya’s, then squeezed her hand gently, “Thank you. I still think this is a huge mistake, but I know my duty too. I’ll get the job done.”_

_Ellya smiled widely, “I know you will. And when you come back, I’ll have another job for you to take care of.”_

_“Oh yeah?” Tala quirked her brow._

_“Mmhmm,” she hummed, then opened her mouth over hers, showing her promises of what was to come. Tala drank it up, knowing it would be a few weeks before she’d get the chance to kiss her embrium flower and hold her in her arms again. It was sweet, like honeyed wine in the spring._

_“Guess I’ll get the mission done as quick as possible then, “ Tala teased when they at last drew away from one another._

_“Don’t rush it too much,” she replied cheekily as she straightened the belt on Tala’s waist, “Some things are more enjoyable when they’re savored.”_

_“Like you?”_

_“Like us,” she patted the belt, now firmly in place, and gave her one last smile and a kiss on the cheek, “Make sure to tell Sama goodbye before you head out. She’ll be more sour than usual if you don’t. And be safe. Don’t take any unnecessary chances.”_

_“I won’t,” Tala assured her, “You try to do the same. I’m holding you to that job you have for me.”_

_Ellya giggled and shook her head gently as she bent over and picked up her pack to leave. Tala left her quiet little pavilion in the oasis, her partner still inside but carried in her thoughts, and finished all her outstanding duties before she set out. A kiss and a tight hug for their daughter, a last order to her lead Ethinan who will handle the situation in the oasis, and a final inspection of the supplies they’d be taking with them._

_The Lavellan scout fidgeted among her Ethinan as she finally gave the order to head out, and it made the doubts and worries of the situation come back to her. Tala knew this was all a trap, and though she had no doubt she could find her way back home if need be, she was afraid of exactly what she’d be coming home to._

“Lesas is following them. Should I send someone else?”

Tala frowned at the dark horizon that seemed to stretch on forever in the Steppes. It was punctuated by tufts of grass and jagged, rocky hills, but from where she was standing, there was nothing but endless night and the constellations stretching across the heavens. It reminded her of home. The deserts that seemed to go on and on, the glittering stars in the sky overhead, and the bright moons making the desolation seem serene. Tala loved the desert, but the Steppes seemed much more ominous. There was no serenity here. Just cold and wind that cut through her bones, leaving her questioning.

“No,” she finally answered Ephin, her second in command, “She’s our fastet tracker and discreet.”

She looked around the dark landscape and sighed heavily, then continued, “Besides, the more scouts we send after them, the higher the chance they’ll be caught. We’re deep in Diceni’s hunting grounds now. We have to tread lightly.”

Ephin nodded at her assessment, and turned to stare at the horizon next to her, a thoughtful silence falling between the two. They knew this was a setup, knew that they were walking into some kind of snare, and it was only a matter of waiting it out now to see the whole thing play out. The Diceni spy and Lavellan scout escaped, as expected, and were heading towards the clan’s main settlement, as expected. Whether they were part of this trap remained to be seen.

“Tell the others to get some sleep while they can,” she said to her second, “I have a feeling they’ll need it.”

“That bad? Think there will be a fight?” he questioned her. Tala crossed her arms over her chest.

“Don’t know, but we need to be ready for anything. I don’t trust this.”

“Neither do I,” Ephin confessed glumly. He was a good hunter, a good scout, but pessimistic to a fault. It made her seem like ball of sunshine and hope by default, “Damn the Triumvirate for getting involved with Craftmaster Vhannas’ children’s squabbles. Isn’t it enough that we have to entertain their airs of superiority?”

Tala forced a smile, “More than enough, but you know how these Marcher clans are.”

Her second cracked his own smile, “Yeah, I do. I’ll go tell the others to get some rest.”

Though the small party were able to sleep for a few hours, Tala did not, and kept her eyes on the horizon. As each hour passed, the sky seemed to only grow more frightful to her, as if it would swallow up the world at the end of its journey. It was only the frustration of uncertainty setting in.. Even with uncertainty though, there was always inevitability that would come along with it. The night seemed eternal, but she knew the sun would rise, and she would keep her eyes open on that horizon until it did.

When that moment finally came, her small contingent rose, yawning but rested, ready to face the day as it approached. They clasped their armor, set their daggers at their waists, their bows on their backs, and prepared themselves for the same inevitability that Tala felt so keenly. It was good that they had.

As the sun rose over the horizon, golden and warm, so did the ranks of the Diceni army.

They sat still, waiting on the backs of their mounts: specially bred halla who were sturdier and more resilient than the pastured herd. Their large, intimidating eagles set on the forearms of their Ethinan, also specially trained to aid their scouts in tracking and canvassing territory. The rising sun backlit their heavy armor and glinted off the long polearms of the infantry ranks, and the still that had settled over Abersher’al’s scouts when they saw the display of power was palpable. 

“Ephin, with me. Everyone else stay here,” Tala ordered the others before walking out into the open Steppes, making her way to the menacing display with her second following close behind. She had no fear, because she knew it was just that: a display. The full force of the Diceni hunters was not needed to subdue her small group. Whoever was in charge here was making a show.With Warlord Threlen and Keeper Paeris away, she had only a few guesses of who it could be.

As she approached, a rider in the front line of the show broke away, riding out to meet her. Another person followed the rider on foot, leading two of their pastoral halla pulling a sled. Tala slowed her walk, then stopped, waiting to meet them halfway. Ephin shifted nervously between his legs as they drew closer and closer, the tension in the air thick as a fog. Tala stood resolute though, more angry that she had to be so forcefully led into this obvious trap.

Her suspicions of the leader of this garish display were confirmed when she saw that the impassive face of Hellan, Keeper Paeris’ wife, was the one who sat so high on her warmount, weighed down in the armor she wore. She had attempted to be intimidating in facing Tala and her Abersher’al scouts, but merely looked like she was drowning in waters too deep for her to be treading in. A grand show for her hunter allies, to be sure, but Tala was not impressed.

“Greetings, Hellan,” she called to her as the Keeper’s wife pulled lightly on the reins of her halla to slow her approach, “I’m humbled to see such a dazzling welcome party for Abersher’al’s arrival on the Steppes.”

“You jest to my face as you and your people have entered the Diceni’s hunting grounds unannounced...and with malicious intent,” Hellan shot back sharply, “Did the Triumvirate send you?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, lethallan,” she replied courteously, “My words could jeopardize an important mission I was tasked with.”

Hellan pursed her lips tightly and gripped the reins on her halla even tighter, “You cross into _our_ territory, send your spies into _our_ settlements, and attempt to sabotage our clan while _our_ Warlord and Keeper are away, then have the nerve to withhold when I question you. Does the Triumvirate think this is a joke?”

“We’ve sent no spies into your settlements,” she denied it, but something told her it wasn’t going to matter what she said, “Our task was to investigate claims of mistreatment coming from defected Diceni hunters.”

“There are no defected Diceni Hunters!” Hellan responded loudly, enough to carry her voice to the waiting troops just off in the distance, “You are spreading lies and rumors to justify invading our clan while my father is away. It will not work. The Diceni are not helpless, and your plans have failed.”

She turned and waved to the person who followed her from the front lines, and they nodded, leading their halla and sled closer to Tala and the now shaking Ephin. Once there, she could see two bodies covered in linen on the back of the sled: one sitting upright, but the other tightly wrapped. Tala’s stomach dropped.

Hellan hopped off her halla, landing on the ground with grace and precision, a testament to her former position as a cavalry rider in the Diceni forces. She walked to the sled and grabbed the linen covering the person sitting there. When she pulled it back, Lesas’ face was underneath, pale, scared, gagged and bound, but alive. Tala let out a silent sigh of relief. At least she was safe and seemed unharmed. It’s all she could ask for right now.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t find your spy creeping in our treasury? Taking in information on our hunters’ movements? Gathering intel on our resources, our wealth? Did you really think we wouldn’t find her _destroying our trade contracts_!” Hella shouted the accusations, making very clear to hunters from both clans what she was saying, and the tension in the air rose to a fevered peak. The pieces began to fall into place for Tala; accusations of trade sabotage, attempts at hitting the clan’s lifelines, and the the trap was sprung. With Lesas caught, there would be very little deniability now. They had walked right into it.

“You know she wasn’t doing that,” Tala didn’t shout the words, but rather let them simmer with her anger. What she said now would matter very little. Instead, she stared at the other body on the sled. The one covered in linen and very stiff. 

“Wasn’t she?” Hellan spat the words with vitriol that would play well to her crowd, and in an effort to ramp the dramatic performance, ripped the linen away from the body, “Just like she didn’t murder Clan Lavellan’s head Ethinan and try to frame our lead hunters!”

It was Llyn. His blank eyes stared up at the pink sky of dawn, his face blue, his mouth slightly agape with a crust of dried blood at the corner. He’d been dead for hours. Tala’s shoulders slumped at the sight. What a waste of life.

Hellan strode to her waiting mount and climbed back on its back, her fury a swirling vortex that spread to Diceni’s hunters. Their mounts stomped impatiently and their polearms were held stiffly, waiting for some order. This situation was going to go downward, very quickly. Tala glanced at Ephin briefly, and he was nearly as pale as Llyn, afraid of what was happening. But he caught her look, and out of the corner of his eye, gave her a nod that affirmed what she was thinking. They were going to be retreating, and soon. 

“How far the Blood of the Embers must have sunk to come up with such an insidious plan. Using Lavellan’s scout as a martry for her cause is unthinkable--” Hellan started.

“She did no such thing,” Tala interrupted her, her anger nearly boiling over. 

“Your scout told us everything,” she answered flatly, “The Triumvirate attempting to discredit my husband and his work, then blame Lavellan so that they stood to gain the hunting grounds in the Steppes and exclusive trade with Lavellan and the other clans of the Free Marches. Such pettiness over imagined power. I truly thought Ellya above such things, but it seems integrity is a virtue long lost.”

“So it seems,” was all she respond. 

Hellan’s eyes lingered on Tala at the words, staring her down for speaking out. She said nothing in response, but smiled cruelly instead. It was tight and knowing, a taunting smirk, a gloat that she had won and there was nothing that Tala could do about it. And there wasn’t. The damned inevitability loomed once more.

Hellan motioned to the herder, who leaned over and covered Llyn’s body once again, and then started to make their way back towards the Diceni settlement, sled dragging behind them sluggishly.

 

“Wait!” Tala shouted, “You can’t take Lesas!”

“I can and I will. She is now a prisoner of war, and we will extract more information out of her in order to protect ourselves from Abersher’al’s greed,” Hellan spoke stoically, the smile now vanished, “As for you...Clan Abersher’al is no longer welcome on the Steppes. The Triumvirate has reached too far and made a dangerous enemy.”

She jerked the reins on her mount, then dug her heels in its sides, running off quickly to rejoin the bulk of her forces. Tala stood paralyzed as she watched Lesas get taken away with her. 

“What now?” Ephin asked her fearfully, “We knew it was a trap--”

There was no time to discuss. The screech of the eagles being released by the infantry, and the subtle rumble of the feet of the mounts of the cavalry gave them all the notice they needed. The Diceni were not only framing Abersher’al, but also making an example of them. Tala grabbed Ephin’s arm and took off, sprinting back towards her waiting group. 

“ _RETREAT! INTO THE HILLS!_ ” she bellowed the order, hoping they’d hear, hoping they weren’t stupid enough to wait for her, hoping that she could save them before more blood could be spilled. 

To her relief, they followed her command, dispersing and heading towards the rocky hills. The halla were mounts, but not made for climbing. They could lose them in the paths on foot. If they could make it there. She and Ephin ran as fast as they could, but the vibration of the calvary giving chase was unmistakable and terrifying. Tala had so much to lose, so much still left to live for, she didn’t want this to be how it ended. 

But the war mounts gained on them, and as they ran as fast as their legs would take them to the rocky hills that didn’t seem to get any closer, the long, dark shadows of eagles flying overhead crawled across the ground in front of them. There was a chance they could outrun the mounted riders. A chance. They could not run faster than an eagle could fly though, and no hills could protect them from their sharp eyes. 

Her legs pumped, her lungs ached, Ephin panted his exertion next to her, but to her dismay, one of the eagles’ shadows grew longer and longer, spanning across the Steppes, honing in on its prey. She watched it spread with alarming speed, but could do nothing too soon or else it would all be in vain. When the shadow seemed to finally find its end, Tala reached over and pressed down on Ephin’s head.

“Duck!” she shouted, and lowered her own head, losing her balance a bit and nearly stumbling. 

But she had timed it just right, as the talons grazed over the very top of her skull but missed their target. The great bird scuttled to the ground, caught off balance itself by the maneuver, and she and Ephin separated enough to go around it, leaving the animal kicking up clouds of dust as it flapped its massive wings to take off again.

“We’re going to make it!” Ephin panted out gleefully as the rocky hills got closer and closer, but so did the rumble of the cloven hooves hitting the ground behind them. And another shadow loomed, stretching out as its creator prepared to dive for its prey. 

They veered towards the hilly paths, turning abruptly, but it didn’t dissuade the immediate threat of the eagle, and with the mountains in front of them, it was nearly impossible to discern its position without looking back. Tala just prayed it would miss, prayed they were fast enough. 

It swooped down with a screech, right on top of them, and she knew praying wouldn’t be enough. The prospect of being maimed before dying was not comforting, so she closed her eyes while still running. At least she didn’t have to see it as it came for her and Ephin. 

But the razor sharp talons never came, the gust of wind under its powerful wings never came, and the screech turned into a muffled squeal as the bird crashed to the ground in front of them in a chaotic flurry of feathers and blood. 

“Hurry up, hahren!” on of her Ethinan called from an outcrop above them, a bow in his hand and a look of concern on his face. Tala couldn’t help but laugh. Alive, but still caught in the snare. A trap, a trap, and what a trap it all was! She had worried that this was the distraction, that Ellya would be the one fighting battles in Nevarra, with her so far away she couldn’t help. At least now she knew. 

She and Ephin climbed to meet the rest of the group, and navigated off the paths of the rocky hills, descending steep cliffsides and putting space between them and the pursuing hunters, and after several hours, even the eagles receded back into the empty space of the Steppes. Whether the pursuit had been meant to scare them, capture them, or kill them, it didn’t matter now. They were sore, battered, bruised, but alive, and that’s what mattered. It hurt that Lesas was left behind, but there was nothing that could be done. Inevitability was cruel, and now one of the best of them was a sacrifice for that cruelness.

When they finally made it back to the Silent Plains that evening and made camp, the adrenaline of the escape had left them and the solemness of the future settled over them instead. No one spoke as the fire crackled and the smell of roasting game filled their nostrils. There was no merry conversation, no laughter, no joy. They had lost one of their own, lost their charge from Lavellan, and gained an uncertain future.

Tala stoked the fire idly with a long branch, watching the embers float up into the dark night, burning out just as quickly as they rose to their death. Uncertainty. Inevitably. It corroded everything now, and she couldn’t even look forward to her return to the oasis. The news she’d bring with her was not what the Triumvirate would want to hear, and the fallout from this mess would spread all over Nevarra. A reckoning was coming.

Her second let himself down next to her with a great sigh, then sat in silence for a few moments while they both brooded over the situation. They needed to discuss the situation, but the rawness still stung.

“What do we do now?” he eventually asked her, “Keeper Gherlanna will want absolution. And vengeance.”

Tala pushed her stick roughly in the fire, then closed her eyes in defeat, “She will. There’s no doubt of that.”

“And what of the Blood of the Embers?”

“The Vir Athish’an means little in a blood feud. Nothing can be done.”

He went quiet again, and the suffocating silence fell over the camp once more. Tala fixated on it, knowing she had tried to stop this from the start, had seen through the excuses and lies from the very beginning. It had been a foolish endeavor, a plot of desperation, a setup by an impossibly clever Keeper, and the Triumvirate played right into it. Clan Abersher’al were a clan of peace, of understanding. One who broke feuds and shared with their kin so they want for nothing. But their pride brought it all crashing down in a moment. Inevitability was the price they would have to pay.

And peace would soon have to make way for the war on the horizon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Congrats on making it through that long one! I'd apologize, but since I haven't updated in 2 weeks, just think of it as a double update! Just...all in one chapter. 
> 
> Anyways, we're done in Steppes for now, and will be heading back to Wycome and Halamshiral for the remaining chapters in this arc, but this and the previous chapter will play a huge role in future arc! Hope everyone liked hearing more about Darvel and Paeris and Hellan and Tala! They were all so fun to write. :3


	45. Brink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain prepares for the execution of the Duke of Wycome

Heliwr’s screeching echoed down the halls of the Nacre Palace on the morning of the executions. It seemed a prescient thing, a call to the unknown deities that still roamed the world, waiting for the blood to be spilled. It could be heard all the way in the dungeons where the prisoners of Lavellan sat, waiting to have that blood taken from them patiently, counting the hours until their Maker would take them in His arms. Some of them certainly had fear; it was to be expected. Death is no easy thing. But perhaps others had found a quiet comfort in the mundaneness of an infant’s wails on their last day.

All Elain had was a headache.

“He’s hungry! You can’t keep ignoring him,” Nellia complained to her in exasperation while Elain sat in front of the vanity in the guest suites of the palace, carefully applying the ceremonial grease paint across her eyes.

It had been a long time since she drug the halla-hair brush across her face, temple-to-temple, and her hand was unsteady. What would’ve been a simple, clean line for her before now looked smudged as she navigated the broken bridge of her nose. There was no time to restart though, and she sighed at the thought of looking sloppy on such an important day. 

“Are you even listening, Elain?” she was irritated now, and Elain could see her reflection in the mirror as she stood behind her, bouncing both her infant and Heliwr in her arms in agitation. 

“I am, Nellia, but you know he won’t eat from me. We already tried this morning. He likes you better,” she paused only long enough to glance at her son in her arms, then returned her focus to her face.

“You’re already not making enough milk to feed him. If you keep pushing him off on me--”

“I’m not pushing him off,” she interrupted her stiffly, offended at the accusation, “My son needs to eat and he isn’t interested in me. What am I supposed to do, let him starve?”

Nellia gently set her tiny daughter in her basket at the foot of the bed, then strode back over to the vanity and stood next to Elain, “You’re supposed to keep trying until you can both figure out what works, like Aricia taught us. He needs his mother.”

“He has his mother. What he needs more is food,” she pulled the brush away from her temple, careful not to get any of the paint on her ear, “Please, Nellia. I need your help. He needs your help.”

She looked down on Heliwr screaming in her arms, and her resolve seemed to break. With a heavy sigh, she sat down in a nearby chair and drew him to her breast, where he latched on right away and ate his meal greedily. The little whimpers and murmurs of his feeding sent a pang to Elain’s heart; she couldn’t give her son what he wanted, and he was more content in a stranger’s arms than his own mother’s. She rolled the head of her brush in a plate of oil, cleaning the bristles of the heavy paint, and tried not to think about the disappointment that threatened to bury itself in her mind. Elain wanted to love her son. His rejection was making it difficult.

“I told you he doesn’t want me,” she said to Nellia quietly as she pulled her hair back at the crown of her head and began to pin the heavy braids up, “And who can blame him? I have never had patience for children.”

“Don’t say that!” Nellia protested, “He’s your baby! As soon as he gets used to feeding from you, you’ll feel the bond that I felt with Samahl and then you’ll love being a mother.”

“Samahl?” she smoothed the stray hairs that fell on her face with a dab of cream. It was imperative that she presented herself as a powerful Maiden in her prime today, so nothing could be out of place, not even a hair. Appearances were always as important as the words.

“You know...my daughter,” Nellia answered her, but looked down lovingly on Heliwr as she spoke, “The moment I looked at her face, I fell in love with her, but I didn’t really understand until she looked up at me as I was feeding her. Being a mother is so wonderful, Elain, you just have to give it a chance.”

“I’m already a mother,” Elain replied flatly, standing up from her cushioned stool and grabbing the Mantle from its stand. She placed it reverently on her shoulders, secured it in place, and appraised herself in the vanity’s mirror. It had been nearly nine years since she first put the Mantle on, and aside from her armor being too tight, she still bore it was grace and authority. She began to feel like her old self; hopefully, that feeling would resonate with her audience today. 

“Well, I mean, you are a mother, but you’re not _really_ a mother yet,” Nellia explained, “You’ll know when you are. It’s just a feeling you get that makes you feel better than anything else in the world. Not even Arthwyn makes me feel as happy as I am with Samahl.”

“I spent eight and a half months carrying him and twenty hours pushing him out of my body. I _am_ a mother. Sentimentality doesn’t make it any less so,” Elain was growing impatient with Nella’s protests to her methods of caring for her child. It was easy for her to boast about the connection between her and her daughter. Samahl hadn’t rejected her like Heliwr did. 

Elain backed away from her vanity, doing one final assessment of her visage. The leather of her cuirass was emblazoned with the hares that were symbolic of her station, and the Mantle cast an intimidating aura over her entire being. She was fully transformed into what she knew in her heart of hearts that she was always meant to be: The Maiden of the Hunt, arbitrator of the Wild, the Will of the Goddess realized. It felt right. It felt like fate.

“How do I look?” she asked her.

“Like yourself,” Nellia answered her flatly, “Though, I liked you better with the loose dresses and your hair down. You seemed less frightening.”

“I need to be frightening. The Lady of the Hunt is not a peaceful goddess,” she replied as she made final adjustments to her hair.

“I know, it’s just….” Nellia trailed off, then sighed softly, “Nevermind.”

Elain turned to face her and realized that the girl was truly changed by motherhood. This was what she wanted, what she dreamed of, and she was disappointed that Elain did not --could not-- feel the same way. It was like training a hunter to aim true and continuously seeing them miss the shot. It was a feeling Elain knew all too well. She too had reached and grabbed and clawed for what she wanted, and she too felt the sting of someone diminishing it. However shallow it seemed to her, this mattered to Nellia. Her shoulders slumped slightly at the realization, and she walked over to the chair where the hearthworker fed her son. She squatted down next to her, and watched his content face as he suckled.

“I’m sorry, Nellia,” she whispered to her, “I promise I will try again later. You make it look so easy, but for me, it is a challenge that I cannot overcome by my will alone. It’s a difficult thing for someone like me to bear. That doesn’t mean I should expect you to do it.”

“I was sad for you, you know,” Nellia whispered back, looking down on Heliwr’s face with her, “I thought it was unfair that no one was happy for you when you were pregnant. It _was_ unfair. New babies are supposed to be loved and welcomed with open arms. We’re Dalish. Every life is precious. But no one did that for you. It was all this tense secret that no one wanted to talk about. I thought you deserved better.”

She curled her finger around the dark strands of Heliwr’s soft hair, then continued, “I thought every mother should feel the same things I felt. Arthwyn was so happy, my parents were so happy, everyone was happy. But you weren’t happy, and I thought I could change that. But it wasn’t going to happen, was it? And I feel like it never will. You can never look at your baby and feel the completeness I feel, can you?”

An uneasiness settled over her at the question, a black cloud that seemed to muddle her mind and weigh down her heart. She wanted it. She wanted to look at her son and feel joy and love and all those beautiful things she was told that encompassed it, but she doubted they would ever come. Those things weren’t meant for the Maiden.

“No,” was her answer, and she wished she felt worse about it. 

“That’s why the Mantle is frightening, Elain. It’s all that matters to you. You look at your reflection in the mirror like I look at my child. What’s going to happen when you can’t wear it anymore?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. It was the truth. Elain had tried not to dwell on the prospect of losing the Mantle, losing her station. The very idea scared her beyond anything else. What was she without this, without the authority that she had fought so hard for? It was not a question she wanted to answer.

“I’m afraid for you. You have so much already, even without your title. Revas loves you, you have a child with him, and if you backed away now, Keeper Paeris might be lenient on you and let you be,” Nellia explained to her. She winced at the idea that it was even an option.

Heliwr unlatched from Nellia’s breast, his appetite sated, and Elain reached for him, gently taking him out of her arms. She turned him on his stomach in her arm, like he enjoyed, and grabbed a linen cloth from his basket near the chair where Nellia sat. Elain placed it under his mouth and patted his back softly, attempting to coax a burp out of him. 

“It’s difficult to explain why that’s not enough for me, Nellia,” she responded at last, comforted by the warmth of her son in her arms, “But it’s not. A quiet family life isn’t what I want.”

“How is it not enough? Love and family are the most important things in the world, and you have both of them!” Nellia stood up from the chair, straightening her dress and walking to the bed to check on her own child, “All you have to do is accept it. That’s all.”

“That is _not_ all,” she said sharply. This discussion was escalating from mild annoyance to outright offense very quickly, “Let’s say I did accept these things. Then what? What am I supposed to do? Sit around, taking care of my child while Revas hunts and finds his glory? Watch the world go by me while I wait, powerless? You have no idea what I went through to earn this, and you have no idea what it means to me! The Mantle is my life, and nothing, _nothing_ will leave me as fulfilled as when I’m wielding it!”

Heliwr’s stomach released the air it was holding, and along with it, spit up from his meal. Elain quickly wiped it up with her linen cloth, careful not to get any of it on her armor. Nellia watched her carefully as she did so, a slight frown settled on her face.

“I’m sorry, Maiden,” she said softly, “I didn’t mean to upset you. It would just be so sad to see you lose all the good things you have while you try to save only one of them.”

Elain walked to the bed and laid Heliwr down on the swaddling cloth she had placed there before his feeding. She wrapped him up tightly, making sure he couldn’t move his hands around wildly, then placed him back in her arms to rock him to sleep. His eyes already started to flutter and close, but for a second, he looked into her face contentedly, safe and warm in his mamae’s arms. When his eyelids shut fully, she leaned down and placed a loving kiss on his forehead, but it felt empty. 

Nellia’s needling was diminishing what should have been a joyous moment for her. Her son was finally content, and she was being bombarded with accusations and misplaced concern, and worst, confronted with things that fed a very deep fear inside of her. Elain was robbed of the peace she should’ve felt, and instead, she was overwhelmed with the precariousness of her future. How much longer would she even have a chance to enjoy Heliwr lying happily in her arms? How much longer would she feel the authority of the Mantle on her shoulders?

As Heliwr began to doze off, she finally found the words for a response, though they were difficult, “You don’t know my brother. I could give everything up in this very moment and surrender to him completely, and he would still find a way to bring me down further. My Mantle is the only thing I have that can protect my son. The only thing I can use to protect Revas. To protect myself. Without it, I’m nothing.”

She wasn’t sure why she was confiding in this hearthworker that she had barely acknowledged the existence of a few short months ago, but the weight of the confession bore down heavily on her. The words left her vulnerable and exposed, as if she just revealed a secret that could destroy her. The reality of it was that perhaps it could. Misspoken words held power, and she was recklessly giving this girl that power over her. But it was all becoming too much to hold in, and Elain felt that if she didn’t say something, she would be buried. To her credit, Nellia seemed to understand the weight of her words, and moved closer to her on the bed, slowly so as not to wake their sleeping infants, then wrapped her arm around Elain’s shoulder.

“You’re much more than the clothing you wear, Maiden. You just have to be brave enough to take it off.”

Before a rebuttal could rise to her lips, there was a knock on the door to her temporary chambers. A soft _tap tap,_ someone thoughtful enough to know that the babies may be sleeping. Nellia stood up and walked over to the door, cracking it open to see who was on the other side. Behind the great blue entrance stood the Hand of Vengeance, pale and haunted, his face turned down in internal torment. Even from the distance, Elain could tell he was distraught.

“Nellia. Take the children now. I will return for Heliwr after the execution,” she commanded the confused hearthworker as she laid her sleeping son in his basket. Nellia scurried to grab them both, a wicker handle in each hand, and she left the room quickly as Aneth’ail walked in, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

He seemed to drag his feet against the ground as he approached her, his head downcast, and his normally tall, rigid form seemed deflated. There was something eating away at him, and it was written clearly all over his body. Elain motioned for him to sit in the chair Nellia fed her son in only moments before, and he nodded gratefully as he lowered himself into the soft cushioned seat.

“Have you come to talk about the Dire Hunt?” she questioned him, but he leaned his chin on his palm, and his fingers seemed to subtly claw at the skin on his face. 

“No. I mean, yes. I…” his voice trailed off, and his hand covering his face seemed to tremble. She grew concerned for her fellow scion. It was not like him to be this detached. 

“Lethallin, are you alright? You look ill,” she asked him gently. He looked up at her at the question, and his eyes were bloodshot and swollen from lack of sleep, startlingly so. The tiny lines of red in his pupils were bright and unsettling in their vividness, and her concern turned to fear.

“You been down in the Catacombs with the lyrium again. Your father and I both warned you against it, Aneth’ail! Neither of us want to see you become corrupted by it.”

“I know, I know,” he shook his head, but his voice was hoarse, “I’m trying to stop, but I’m the only one who can endure it long enough to try to find a way to get rid of it. I owe it to the people who died here to at least try.”

“Your guilt is going to kill you,” she cut through the excuses he made abruptly, “We did everything that could be done to save the people in this gods-forsaken city. I’ll oversee the death of the perpetrators today, and we will wait for the Inquisition to step in and finish the rest. Then, you can go back to the steppes and recover instead of punishing yourself for things you can’t control.”

“The red lyrium--” he started, but she lifted her hand to cut him off.

“Can be handled by Sar’een. Her people are better equipped to deal with it anyways. I could barely withstand even the slightest exposure to it; Creators know what it’s doing to you.”

“It’s as if I can’t wake from the nightmare. As if the spirits I invite into myself are pieces of the souls I killed. I can never cleanse myself of the things that happened here,” he admitted, his voice quaking as badly as his hands. Elain had thought he looked haunted when Nellia opened the door; now, she wondered if it was more literal. She didn’t pretend to understand how his magic worked, or what he conjured with he underwent his own Trial, but if it was anything like her isolation in the mountains, she knew it touched him in ways that would never leave him. And his time here had only made it worse.

A pang of concern rose up in her chest, and she spoke to him softly, “You did everything right. The humans are to blame for the horror here, not you.”

He lifted his head suddenly at her words, his eyes staring at her wildly, “I have to execute the Duke.”

“What?” she rose from her spot on the bed slowly. The cloak attached to her Mantle brushed against the floor, but everything else was silence.

“I...I’m the Hand of Vengeance. It’s my duty to see that Vengeance is served in the fullest. I have faltered in that duty, and now I must fix my mistakes,” the words tumbled out of his mouth frantically, “I need to kill the Duke. I need to kill the Tevinter advisor. I need to kill Captain Donovan. I should--I should never have let it get this far. I should’ve stepped in sooner. I’m sorry Elain.”

He looked up at her, his eyes swollen and stained with that fretful red, and somehow _pleading_. This was unlike the Hand. Aneth’ail only intervened when it was necessary, when no one else could handle the judgment, when no one else laid claim to it. This had been a direct attack on Lavellan; he was overstepping his authority and they both knew it.

“The Dire Hunt has been called. You will do no such thing,” she stared him down coldly, “I’m nearly offended you would even suggest it.”

He couldn’t meet her gaze, and lowered his head again, fixated on the floor, “The Earthshaker demands…”

“The Mother of Hares _demands_ blood for those who took the lives of Her faithful,” she shot back at him, “Donovan, and by extension, the Duke and his advisor, orchestrated the Stand at Minanter. They orchestrated the atrocities here. Vengeance is not enough. The Sacrifices must be paid in full.”

“I know, Maiden, but I don’t have a choice,” he clutched his head in his shaking hands, “I have to do this! It has to be me.”

“Why? Why must it be you? Why must you interfere now, after everything I have done to ensure that Lavellan’s hunters were given their full measure? What do you gain from this? What to do the Dalish gain from this?”

She began to pace around him, her anger guiding her steps, her patience hanging by a thread, “I have pushed and pressed for this, I have spearheaded this Hunt, I have risked my life, the life of the father of my child, _my child’s life_ , the life of all of Lavellan to see this through...and for what? For you to have some deluded sense of duty hit you suddenly and try to take everything I worked for away? The Dire Hunt is not so easily dismissed! The Mother of Hares is not so easily dismissed! _I am not so easily dismissed!_ ”

Elain yelled the last words, that thin thread of patience broken and panic overtaking her. After all this, after all this...she couldn’t stand the thought of the Hand taking it away on a whim. More troubling was the fact that if he was convicted enough, there was nothing she could do if he did. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this,” Aneth’ail whispered the words in his hands over and over again at her speech. He was breaking down in front of her eyes, “I don’t want to kill them, I don’t. I don’t want more blood on my hands.”

“Then why? Hmm? Why do this?” she pressed him, leaning over his shoulder now, forcing him to confront her instead of hiding away, “Do you think that killing my Prey will wash your hands clean? Does it truly matter to you that it’s _your_ hand that cuts their throats? Are you _that_ thirsty for Death?”

He said nothing in response, but his shoulders now shook too, and muffled whimpers escaped him. The foundation was cracking, and Elain had everything to lose by giving up now. 

“I see what this is,” she all but pressed her mouth to his ear, “You are grabbing for power when I am weak. I had thought better of you, Aneth’ail. How disappointing that you are no better than my brother.”

He sucked in a deep breath at the mention of Paeris, and lifted his face once more, his reddened eyes now filled with tears.

“I’m not--I’m not the Keeper. I don’t want to do this to you. The more blood I see, the sharper the teeth in my mind are. I don’t want this,” he turned his head to look at her, “Please. Please, Elain. I cannot endure it.”

“Endure what?” she was not moved by his words. 

His chin quivered and the tears poured from his eyes, “I can’t endure not seeing them. They will take my niece and nephew from me and I will have nothing to keep me in the waking world anymore. Please...I can’t…”

“Paeris and Hellan,” she said stiffly before straightening herself and standing up, “They’re blackmailing you to get to me. Treacherous snakes.”

“I didn’t want to...”

“Hush, falon. I know you didn’t,” she began her pacing again, grinding her boots against the Antivan rugs that adorned the floor, grasping her chin in her palm as she contemplated the information, “You are loyal to your family, your kin, and The People. You have always been above reproach. Of course they’d take something cherished from you to get you to do their bidding…”

Elain stopped suddenly, her cloak swishing at her feet, “You can’t allow this. If their plans succeed, you will be nothing more than a tool for them and their schemes.”

“If I don’t do this, Hellan will keep Da’paeris and Meira from me. I know she will,” he attempted to argue, but it was weak.

“And if you do this, she will continue to hold that over your head for the rest of your days; which, won’t be very long, seeing as how you are determined to punish yourself for the role you took on willingly,” she brushed his concerns off. It was petty blackmail, one her brother and sister in law would never be able to follow through on, but the Hand’s desperation was worrisome none the less, “It doesn’t have to be this way. You can stand up for yourself by refusing to partake in their games. Threlen will stand by you. I will stand by you. And not even Paeris would purposefully incur the Warlord’s wrath and a possible alliance with the Maiden for a bargaining piece.”

“But what if he does? I love the children. They are my only reprieve from all of this, the only light in my life. I don’t want to lose them.”

Elain clasped her hands behind her back and squared her shoulders, “You won’t. I can assure you of that. What you _will_ lose is your freedom, your integrity if you allow them to control you. You are the Hand of Vengeance, Scion to the Dalish, personified Will of the Earthshaker. You’ve served the People faithfully for nearly twenty years. If you allow them to win, it will have all been for nothing.”

His whole body trembled now, and it was clear his will was breaking. The sudden, sharp metallic taste in her mouth reminded her that when Aneth’ail lost control over his will, his magic went along with it. She needed to end this, and bring him firmly onto her side. She took a few steps, then crouched in front of him, placing her fingertips on his quaking shoulders, but drew them back reflexively as static shock ran through them. He was at the edge; she had to pull him back.

“Let me handle this, falon. I will make sure my brother knows that even as a mother, I am still a power to be reckoned with. No blackmailing or duplicitous dealings will sway me from my goals. Paeris suspects this already and wants to test the limits with you, but I will show him I’m not so easily subdued. Allow me to do this, and every elf from here to the the Tirashan will know that I orchestrated this entire mission. I will be in a position to protect you. But if you allow your Keeper to manipulate you now, you will never be free of it. He will suck you dry until you are nothing but a husk.”

“I know.”

The magic slowly began to recede, a cool, preternatural stillness left in its place, chilling her fingers to the bone; but, it had worked. Aneth’ail carefully, _carefully_ uncoiled his body from the cocoon he had created, and when he looked up at her now, the eyes that nearly glowed with the red seemed to have also dispelled that dark magic that had burrowed itself in him. Elain couldn’t stop herself from sighing in relief. No matter the outcome, it was painful to see her kin like this. 

“I love our niece and nephew too. I risk not seeing them again as well by undermining my brother. But we cannot allow for him to control us,” she told him quietly, knowing it was the truth, “We are scions, and we are only beholden to our Creators. We exist to serve a purpose, a duty, and to be the balance to the power-hungry Keepers who would undo all the Dalish have accomplished since the fall of our Homeland. There is no choice but to sacrifice so that this can remain the same.”

“While I agree with the sentiment,” his voice was stronger, calmer now. He was asserting control over himself again, “I can’t help but recognize that you and Paeris are cut from the same branch of the tree. Ambition and self-service runs deep within you both…”

He turned his gaze from her and set it on the open balcony on the other side of the room that overlooked the city and the sea. The Hand inhaled deeply, then closed his eyes, “Thank you, Elain. It seems I am far too easily controlled these days. This city has taken its toll. Perhaps once I am back in the steppes, I can find some peace. Or perhaps I will lose the struggle before I can look on my home again. Only the All Father knows.” 

She opened her mouth in protest, but he shook his head silently to rebuke her, “I will let you have your Prey. If I spilled their blood, it would only make things worse. The responsibility on my shoulders --on _our_ shoulders-- is too important to let fall into the hands of those with malicious intent. I can only hope --and pray-- that it does not earn me the ire of my family.”

“Nor mine,” she said comfortingly, “I have already disappointed my father and endure the constant chipping away of my authority from Paeris. And where they have shunned and disowned me, you have been nothing but patient. We are tied together as family by our siblings’ marriage and by our shared roles as scions, and it pains me to see you suffering so.”

He gave her a short huff of a laugh and a smile at the remark, and she smiled back before continuing, “You must think I’m silly for thinking of it that way, but it’s true. I can see your seams straining, and know what it feels like to question your own perception, your own mind. We have both seen and taken into ourselves things that cannot be explained, nor should they. There’s a comfort in knowing that I am not alone in that. Whatever the outcome of all of this, I do not want that to change.”

It was his turn to reach out to her, and he wrapped his hands around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug, tight and warm. The lingering effects of his magic still clung to him and made her smell a phantom of seared flesh and fresh blood in her mind, but she returned the embrace none the less. 

“It won’t change,” he whispered to her, his voice cracking in its emotion, “It won’t. We are never truly alone in this, and I owe you my gratitude for reminding me.”

“And I owe you mine for letting me follow through with my plans. No one can truly understand what this means to me like you can.”

“I know.”

Their moment of comfort and understanding was broken with a click of the doors to the room opening and the soft footsteps of someone entering broke the spell. Elain looked up to see Revas standing, frozen in place in his confusion at the scene. 

“Is everything okay?” he asked them carefully, but his raised eyebrows hid nothing. Elain and Aneth’ail dropped their hug, and with a silent sigh, she rose from her position and brushed off her clothing lightly with her hands, smoothing any wrinkles that have formed.

“Fine,” she responded stoically, “The Hand of Vengeance was just discussing some matters troubling him before I oversee the executions. Is everything ready?”

Revas looked between the two of them, his mouth turned down slightly, “Yeah. I came to get you because we need to get this started. The citizens of the city are getting restless.”

She nodded her understanding, then looked at Aneth’ail once more, “I’ll take my leave now. Get some rest, ma falon. You can stay here in my room and enjoy the sea air.”

“Thank you,” he answered absently, looking out at the open balcony again, and as much as she wished she could spend more time drawing him away from his own thoughts, there were matters to attend to.

“Shall we?”

She stretched her hand out to Revas, who took it reverently, then led her out of the room and down the eerily empty passages of the Nacre Palace. Everyone was in the courtyard near the drawbridge, waiting patiently for her to enact her judgment on the men who nearly destroyed Wycome. As much as she wanted to think about The Hand’s degrading condition, there was still a palpable thrill building in her chest at the idea of her exerting the Will of the Lady of the Hunt over her Prey. It had been so long since the opportunity arose, and now there was a chance for her to become known for more than being some Dalish leader among the Free Marchers. Paeris had tried to take it away from her, but he had failed, and she would not miss the chance to capitalize on it.

“So what’s really going on?” Revas asked her once they were far enough from the guest suites that no curious ear could hear them. 

“Paeris tried to use Aneth’ail against me by threatening to withhold his children from the Hand if he didn’t exectue the prisoners himself,” she explained bluntly, “My brother is getting bold in his machinations, and the Hand is in no position to make rational decisions alone. I need you to talk to Warlord Threlen about his current state.”

“Why me?” 

“Because, even after all this, Threlen still doesn’t trust me,” she pointed out as they rounded the corner that would lead them to the upper levels of the palace’s Grand Hall, “I am Paeris’ sister, after all. He’ll see my concern for his son as some sort of plot, but you’ve spent time working with him now. You train the hunters and guildmembers alike with him. He will listen to you if you express concerns for Aneth’ail’s state of mind. You will just need to tell him that his son is spending too much time in the Catacombs with the red lyrium.”

“And what will that accomplish?” he questioned her tersely. There seemed to be some agitation in him. He was walking faster and with heavier steps than normal, but she had no time to get to the bottom of it.

“It will hopefully keep The Hand out of the Catacombs until he can recover himself. This is purely personal. He’s suffering, and I am loathe to see it.”

“How magnanimous of you,” he was being sarcastic. Elain grabbed him by the arm and stopped their progression, drawing him in near her roughly.

“Do not presume to know what he endures, and do not presume that I cannot feel sympathy for those suffering. I fought those...those lyrium _thralls_ on Carnation street. I do not want to see him turn into one of them,” she chastised him through gritted teeth, “Not everything is about me all the time. You think I don’t realize that, but you’re wrong.”

He stood rigidly, unimpressed by her attempts at eliminating his attitude, and grabbed onto her arm, mimicking her movements, “Oh yeah? Then why isn’t The Hand doing the executions instead?”

A flush rushed to her cheeks at his quick appraisal of the situation, but she locked eyes with his anyways. This was too important to let his temper go unchecked,

“You know why. I don’t want to see him lost to himself, but I also do not want to lose myself either. I’ve come too far to let my brother take this from me,” she stared him down in her determination, unwilling to let him make her feel guilty for fighting for her life, “By the end of the the day, every city in the Free Marches will know that it was the Maiden who orchestrated this and the Maiden who liberated Wycome and the Maiden who gave justice to its citizens. Paeris will learn very quickly that his blackmail and subterfuge are a poor substitute for the decisive action I bring.”

“He’s not going to learn anything if you keep standing here lecturing me,” he scowled at her, before pulling himself out of her grip and walking towards to palace’s exit once more, “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

She quickly caught up to his longer stride, unwilling to let his obvious agitation go, “You’re distracted, Revas, and I can’t afford all this questioning. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he snapped at her, but didn’t take his focus off the path in front of them, “I just don’t like executions.”

“You’ve never hesitated in killing before.”

“It’s not just killing, Elain. I can kill without a problem,” he explained as they descended the stairs leading to the large door that opened into the palace’s antechamber, “In a fight, when I’m hunting, whatever. But these are people tied up, unable to fight back. It’s not about survival then. Not about the hunt. Not about the Vir Tanadhal. It’s just about taking a life.” 

“And since when has that bothered you?” she pressed him. 

He shot her a look over his shoulder, all furrowed brows and deep frowns, his disapproval written all over him. But he said nothing and pressed forward furiously, making his way across the antechamber and out into the courtyard, leaving her standing alone. She sighed at his sudden moodiness, and prayed silently it wouldn’t interrupt her plans. It was too important. Everything hinged on this now. If Paeris and Aneth’ail couldn’t stop her in this, Revas would not either. Her mind was set and her goals were clear as summer. 

A loud crack of lighting sounded from outside, and the telltale signs of rain against the stained glass of the antechamber’s windows alerted her to the storm that was blowing through.She smoothed her hands over her hair, her deerskin leather leggings, then her Mantle, preparing herself for it. These were not the ideal omens, but where others would be fearful of them, Elain choose to see it as a blessing from the All Father Himself.

One last deep breath, and she made her way into the courtyard that held her Prey to the sounds of applause that nearly matched the thunder rolling in the sky. 

 


	46. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan faces his end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: graphic depictions of executions by hanging. Also blood.

It never stopped raining in Wycome. 

Thunder rumbled in the sky, a great beast lumbering across the expanse of the city: it’s heaviness shaking the poorly built neighborhoods near the docks, and its dull roar echoing through the empty halls of the abandoned estates on Poppy Avenue. Strikes of lightning punctuated the approaching storm, great blazes of jagged light on the sea, the Maker reaching down in the only way He knew how.

The rain seem to pool in the Nacre Palace’s dungeon cells, leaving murky puddles everywhere, making it nearly impossible to stay dry. Donovan’s rags were soaked through, and the coldness of that dark place only made matters worse. It was as if death already touched him with its chilled, bony hand, stroking his skin and leaving him remembering things he had hoped he buried long ago. But nothing ever really stayed buried. Bodies would always rise to the surface with the floods and those secret memories of pain and loss along with them. 

It felt rotten in his mouth. Already decayed, already dead. Just like his dad. Just like his dreams. 

He wrapped his tattered wool blanket around him tighter, shivering, wishing the knife-ears would come soon to take him to meet the Maker. At least then he wouldn’t have to feel the gnawing in his guts. Maybe he’d even feel warm again. Or dry. Donovan would settle for dry. The crumbling mortar of his fetid little cell allowed that constant rainfall to slowly erode away at him since his capture, and that, along with the Duke’s pitiful moans and cries in the darkness, made for an uncomfortable imprisonment. He was certain being dead and dry was better. 

After what felt like a lifetime, the iron gates that led into the cell block finally creaked open, and a whole mess of armored boots stomping on stone permeated through that damp hell, and he knew he’d get his wish sooner rather than later. The voices carried by those feet spoke in brisk commands, immediate acknowledgements, and even an underlying excitement. His captors were happy to for this occasion, he was certain of it. Wasn’t everyday these savages got to indulge in their bloodlust by killing humans. 

They came to a halt at the door leading into his cell, and despite his contentment in his own impending doom, he was not looking forward to moving from his position on the rotted wooden palette that he had used as a bed. There were three of them at the cage door though, the two on the side unassuming and lean, and one short and stout like a dwarf but with a denseness that betrayed his physical prowess. There’d be no overwhelming him and breaking free. Would do as good as trying to run through a wall.

“Up Donovan,” the short elf commanded him, unlocking the cell door as he did so, “It’s time.”

Down the way further, he could hear the Duke screaming as another group of elves tore him from his cell, but Donovan preferred not to make a scene. He was alone in a city run by elves now. There was no getting out of it. No hand of Divinity to reach down and scoop him up from this mess. The Duke and the Tevinter advisor and Lokka lost the fight. He lost the fight. Might as well face his death like the soldier he pretended to be. 

He stood up from his cocoon, the rancid smell of his own sweat and filth coming with him, and he drug his cramped legs outside of the cell. One of the leaner elves pulled his wool blanket from his shoulders as he passed by, and he watched it fall to the floor helplessly. The last vestige of comfort he had, now soaking in dirty water and lingering piss. 

“Head straight up the stairs,” the stout elf ordered, “We’re taking you to get cleaned up and put some decent clothes on you. The Maiden wants you to die with some dignity.”

“Fuck the Maiden,” he spit on the ground. 

One of the elves butted him in the back with the pommel of their short sword at the statement. He stumbled forward slightly, dazed and still adjusting to walking again, but quickly righted himself with a smirk. Even at his lowest, he still wasn’t going to be bowing to any elf. 

The stout elf sighed, “No need to get hostile. You’re not going to keep your life today. Might as well just accept it.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like who’s going to be the one taking it from me,” he mumbled as they climbed the steep, slippery steps leading into the palace proper.

They led him to a small room off of the servant’s quarters to be bathed. A group of grim-faced city elves scrubbed him down with nearly ice-cold water and rough strips of linen. It left him even colder and his skin raw, but at least the clothes they put on him were decent. Well-fitted breaches, a warm wool tunic, and flat leather shoes with wool socks. Donovan would rather meet the Maker with his guard’s armor on, but he threw away that chance a long time ago.

After he was washed, the stout elf came back and tied his hands in front of him with a thick rope. It chafed his wrists but it was better than irons, he supposed. Rope made it feel less official, like this was all some barbaric coven of witches and savages in the forest killing him for stepping on the wrong rock. Iron chains would only remind him of his time in Kirkwall. Times when he was the one dragging the prisoners to the execution block by their clanking chains, so sure of himself that it was right. They were criminals, after all. They deserved it.

The elf dragged him by his rope, pulling him through the servants’ quarters, through the grand hall. They passed by the pillar he threw the gauntlet down at to challenge his father’s killer, and he saw a hairline crack in the marble floor nearby where he fell. His defeat would be immortalized there, along with the murderer’s triumph. Donovan spit on the ground again at the thought, knowing full well that asshole probably enjoyed the idea of it. 

As his escort took him through the hall and into the antechamber that would lead him out into the courtyard, he couldn’t help but reflect on the murderer’s late night visit to his cell. The man was no older than him, but death followed him like a shadow until he nearly wore it like a cloak. It had wrapped around him, a well-fitted shroud, and his face as as cold as the stone floor that Donovan cowered on. He explained Donovan’s father’s death in excruciating detail, without the slightest hint of regret, and he knew the elf was sincere; he didn’t regret murdering Glover. Not one bit. He was a monster. All of them were monsters really, but him? A beast of a whole ‘nother skin.

And that’s what gnawed on his guts and what made him ready to get this all over with. There was no chance for justice. No chance for redemption. He had failed so thoroughly, so deeply, his name would be completely scratched from the world but for barbaric stories of conquest by this beast around a campfire. Just like his dad, he supposed. Maybe he’d even boast about that. Killed the father and the son. A generation of revenge. Wiped out a whole line of human slavers on his own.

Donovan’s shoulders slumped at the thought. It sounded right. More than right. It’d make a damned good tale. 

When they finally left the antechamber and moved under the doorway splintered and cracked from the assault on the palace not even two weeks before, the rain had not stopped, but the courtyard was stuffed full. There were a thousand eyes that fell on him at once as the crowd watched the stout elf lead him out in the open, all of them soaking wet, their hair sticking to their skin like seaweed, and the grayness of the morning made it seem like they had all drowned. They swayed and ebbed as his captor led him through that crowd, like drowned bodies floating ashore on the tides of the Amaranthine, and the silence in the air was near deafening. The rain spoke louder. The wind. The dark clouds. The smell of salt from the sea. Bright, luminous eyes only stared, and the humans in the crowd merely looked to the ground. 

Just another layer to add to this grand tale, he supposed. The disgraced Captain who got away at Minanter, finally brought to heel, and no one could speak, their hatred for him was so great, so profound. It would certainly make it all the more dramatic. It was shaping up to be a story wasted on knife-ear lips, and instead, better suited for a bard. There was at least some comfort in that, even if he was the villain of the story. 

There was a crowding of people around the gallows at the end of the courtyard, all of them clamoring for the best spot to watch the imminent spectacle. The gallows themselves were more daunting than he imagined, and the thought of climbing up the weather-worn wooden steps in front of all these elves made his heart clench in fear. But what choice was there really? He paused to calm himself, but his captor yanked on the rope, and forced him to march to meet his doom.

The stout elf’s boot made hard steps against wet stone as they drew closer and closer to the end, and that turned to a hollow thumping when he ascended the gallow’s steps. Donovan tried to focus on that. Footsteps on the ground, bringing him back down to this earth, reminding him that he still had breath in his lungs and that he still needed to inhale. It was becoming harder now, though. Once they arrived at the top of the gallow’s platform, the quiet crowd found their voices, and the low rumble of their admonitions and shouts of disgust were all-encompassing. 

_Murderer! Shemlen scum! Kill him!_ and the occasional incoherent yells punctuated the thoughts in his mind. He had tried his best. _Murderer._ He had only wanted vengeance for his father. _Shemlen Scum_. His best had not been good enough. _Kill him._ The elf dragged him to the wooden post at the side of the platform and taking more rope from his waist, secured him there. Donovan let the acceptance of it wash over him. _Murderer. Scum. Kill him._ _Murderer. Scum. Kill him._ Nothing mattered. This was all he was. All he would ever be.

_“You’ve ruined the song! You’ve ruined the city! My Pearl, my beautiful Pearl! Tarnished and cracked! What have you heathens done! Maker Maker Maker, help me, they’ve spoilt it all!”_

The rain fell long and hard in the courtyard, on those old gallows, and the Duke’s screams as they pulled him up the stairs and tied the noose around his neck were louder and more frightening than even the heaviest storm. His teeth were cracked and blackened and his eyes were deeply bloodshot. Donovan had seen enough to know that he had gotten the illness that all the others drinking the water had gotten, though he couldn’t find it in him to feel pity for Duke Antoine. He had done this himself by inviting Tevinter in. He had destroyed Wycome, leaving the elves strong enough to hit the final nail in his coffin. Nobody’s fault but his own.

They brought up Atrius, the Tevinter advisor, next, but he had two escorts; one was a hunter that he recognized from patrols in the dungeons, but the other was different. On the taller side, though not as tall as Donovan, dark hair pulled back tightly at the crown of his head, and heavy robes decorated with brightly woven patterns on the collar and fur lining peeking out through his sleeves. When they passed by Donovan and tied the noose around Atrius’ neck, he felt a stark draw of his blood against his skin, like steel to a magnet. He was a mage, and they must be using him to nullify Atrius’ own magic. Clever, and unsurprising how many mages these Dalish kept in hand. Whatever fantasies of escape he had harbored in the back of his mind were now disintegrated entirely. He could perhaps outrun arrows and swords...he couldn’t outrun magic.

After the Duke and Atrius had been prepared, their captors merely waited. Donovan was still tied to the wooden post, and he couldn’t help but wonder why his neck wasn’t in a noose too. Maybe he wasn’t good enough for the noose. Maybe he wasn’t good enough for a quick death. Maybe they’d leave him out here until he starved to death while forcing him to drink the poisoned water. Panic welled up in his stomach, his most desperate fears crawling to the surface, and his whole body trembled against the ropes that bound him. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. 

_Through blinding mist, I climb A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base Endlessly far beneath my feet The Maker is the rock to which I cling_

He whispered the words of the Chant of Light under his breath. It was from the Trials, his grandmother’s favorite verses, ones she’d sing to him over and over again when he was a child. His father had hated it, but it always soothed him, so Glover allowed it despite his distaste. It brought with it warm memories, when things were good and pure, where pain was only demons lurking under the bed that would disappear quickly with a candle held by his mother. The rain beat down on his face, but the Chant helped.

They waited for some time, the Duke crying, Atrius standing stone still, and Donovan himself remembering. But the crowd was growing louder and louder and more restless, and at last, the tension the air seemed to be harboring broke. 

The grand doors to the Nacre Palace, splintered and broken, opened, and out came his father’s murderer. As he stalked up the path the crowd made, another elf joined his march. Older, his face scarred and broken, his hair graying, and void of any of the tattoos the Dalish wore on their face. He was a resident of the city, most likely, here to oversee and make sure justice was done for the alienage. Donovan was glad. For all his hatred of this particular clan, and for the man that murdered his father, he never liked how the Duke let Tevinter play their experiments on the elves living in the city. Left a bad taste in his mouth. Tasted like blood.

Not that he was any better of course.

His father’s murderer and his protege stopped at a small stack of stones that had been erected in front of the gallows, elevating them slightly above the crowd. They talked to each other quietly, but had turned their backs away from the gallows, so Donovan could only see a little. It was for the best. He didn’t know if he had the strength to meet his father’s murderer in the eye again.

_I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, In darkness enveloped._

The words circled around his lips, and he knew his heartbeats were limited now. He was safe in saying them, in showing his weakness, because the thunderous roar of the crowd as the palace doors opened once again drowned out anything he could say. The Chant did no good this time, and is trembling didn’t stop, only intensified, as voices in the crowd shouted their approval at the arrival of the Maiden.

She was smaller than he had expected; short, but the large fur mantle she wore on her shoulders made her seem a giant. She was obviously strong under the leathers and fur she wore, not just in her physical demeanor, but in the very presence she projected. Her held was held high, her face adorned with intimidating paint, her neck stretched and strained as she looked over the crowd. Piled high on her head was a nest of braids and beads and leather tied in, surrounded her like a dark halo, and the way she walked up to her place of honor next to her murderer and the city elf harbored no illusions of who was in control of the situation. 

Donovan held no illusions either. This was the woman who ordered his father’s death, ordered the Inquisition to attack at Minanter, and ordered the siege here in Wycome. Every event that led to this moment was her doing, and after seeing her in the flesh, he had no doubts that this may be the end of him, but for the Maiden, this was merely another step in her long path to glory. Lokka had warned him, told him that he’d been battling this Maiden for years, and Donovan still didn’t see her as the ultimate threat. If he had, perhaps he would’ve gone about this entirely differently.

He closed his eyes and sighed as the crowd quieted themselves in anticipation for the Maiden to speak. Too late to think about what he would’ve done now.

“Andaran Atish’an, lethallin!” 

The crowd grew tumultuous at her greeting, the crescendo of shouts falling back into the small ocean of people, and she beamed her approval from her makeshift podium. 

“I will be brief, for I know you are eager to see vengeance for the wrongs done unto you! Know that I am eager to see it as well. The Mother of Hares demands blood spilled for blood spilled, and my entire soul yearns for Her to be given Her due!”

Cheers rang out across the courtyard, the Dalish in the crowd growing especially loud. Her voice cut through it like a knife though, her speech not finished.

“The Dire Hunt was called for the loss we suffered at Minanter. It is a sacred, age-old tradition that is not to be taken lightly, and as you know, it does not end until the Prey is dead. In the entire duration of my time as Maiden, I have only called a Dire Hunt on one other occasion, and in her long service, Maiden Bida only called it three times. Part of the burden of wearing the Mantle is knowing that justice must be served in the Wild, and that Andruil expects us to serve it at all costs. I will tell you with much certainty that today, the Mother of Hares will be pleased. Captain Donovan, the man behind the deaths of our hunters at Minanter has been apprehended, and as the Prey, his blood will be spilled. Andruil will have Her recompense!”

The crowd roared their approval at her declaration, but Donovan merely swallowed deeply and looked towards his feet. At least they wouldn’t leave him out here exposed, starving, a spectacle for children and elders alike to throw their disgust at. 

“The Dire Hunt ends today, but so does the reign of terror Duke Antoine has inflicted upon our kin. It was by his orders did Donovan attack us, and it was by his orders that the red lyrium was implanted in the elves here to grow. The treachery committed by the leader of a Free Marcher city is unprecedented,” she paused for effect, her audience captivated, “And it is unforgivable. When your Hahren was killed, Sal came to the Maiden, seeking her aid to fight a corruption that poisoned not just the water, but the life of the city itself. Let it be known that I heeded the call!”

Another rapturous round of cheers, and Donovan winced at their enthusiasm. 

“The Maiden answered! Clan Lavellan answered! And we brought with us the force of the strongest Dalish warriors in the North, ready to take back this city from those who would do it harm. And we did...with the aid of the very people who made the call to action. Dalish and city elf, fighting side by side, relearning our shared struggles and shared kinship. The Maiden answered, but deliverance was brought by Wycome’s own hands!”

The crowd was deafening, the excitement swarming the air like insects, a rough buzzing of emotions. The Maiden raised her hands to calm them, and their voices quieted to a dull rumble at her silent command. 

“From this day forward, let no human step on the backs of elves without remembering Wycome!”

The swell of excitement grew to a pitch. She was drawing them into a frenzy. Duke Antoine’s pitiful cries were nothing compared to the atmosphere in the courtyard.

“Let no human strike us without remembering that _we will strike back_!”

The gallows trembled under Donovan as the stomping feet of the crowd shook the earth.

“And let no human forget that when they do wrong by the city elves, it is _the Maiden_ who will hunt them until justice is served, and _she will do so without mercy!_ ”

She turned around abruptly to face the gallows, her cloak swinging with her, and she stared right into the faces of the condemned, her eyes as hard as stone. 

“Duke Antoine. For your crimes against the Dalish, against the elves of Wycome, and against your own people, your are sentenced to death. When you meet your Maker, make sure to tell Him that the Maiden sent you to your hell.”

Without further ceremony, one of the elves standing guard on the gallow’s kicked the lever on the right post, opening up the door underneath the Duke’s feet. It was sudden and made the crowd gasp. They sucked in all the air in the courtyard as they watched their former ruler squirm in the rope around his neck, kicking his legs and making gasping, sputtering sounds as he choked. When he at last stopped moving of his own accord, the air seemed to be released all at once, and the jubilation at the corpse of Duke Antoine of Wycome swaying gently to and fro on his noose was darkly familiar. How many times had Donovan partaken in the same morbid spectacle? He shuddered knowing that it would be how he would end.

“Atrius of Tevinter,” the Maiden focused now on the advisor, who mumbled things under his breath and closed his eyes, avoiding her piercing gaze, “For your crimes against the Dalish, against the elves of Wycome, and against the city itself, you are sentenced to death. Be thankful the Maiden did not stuff your wretched body with your corrupted lyrium before seeing to your death.”

A second guard kicked the lever on the post Donovan was tied to, releasing the door underneath Atrius. The same plot played out. The same still silence as they watched the Tevinter flail, the same exultation when he finally lost his battle, and the same spectre of his death haunting Donovan as he struggled to face his own. His hands chafed against the wood grain of the post, and his teeth chattered in fear. There had been no noose prepared for him. He would not be allowed to hang. He was so afraid, he didn’t know what else to do.

_“Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide.”_

Under his breath, into his chest, for no one but himself, he said the Chant, “ _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light... ”_

“Captain Donovan.”

 _“And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost,”_ prayers were not to be forsaken, not in a moment like this. He completed the verse, then slowly lifted his head to meet the woman who held his fate in her ruthless little hand. 

“You are the Prey of the Dire Hunt. It was your attack at Minanter that sealed your doom, but the chaos you’ve sown in the wake of that battle have been nothing short of devastating. Know that for your crimes, blood must be paid in blood. The Mother of Hares demands no less, and the Maiden revels in the Will of the Goddess. I shall enjoy seeing your life drain from your body,” her eyes narrowed at the statement, and she lifted her hand subtly, signaling the two guards on the gallows to tighten his bindings on his hands, and add new rope to his legs, his torso, his neck. 

There was no use fighting. He would not escape. Donovan stood like a sentinel, like a soldier, meeting the dark stare of this savage elf. She stared back brazenly, but he was drawn to the movement next to her. His heart dropped in his chest when he saw his father’s murderer pulling and arrow from the quiver at his waist and drawing his bow. So this is how it will be. The man that beheaded his father would also kill him. Donovan couldn’t stop the tears from flowing down his face.

“Blessed be The Lady of the Hunt as we give back to Her the price She demands for treachery.”

 _“Blessed be her name.”_

Some of the elves called out in response, but he was beyond himself. He stared Death in the eye now, and Death stared back. Brows furrowed, eyes a mossy green in the dark, rainy afternoon, and a preternatural control over his abilities as the bowstring stood taut and still in his obviously capable hands. This would be the last thing he would see.

“Any words?” The Maiden asked him bluntly, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the tip of the arrow that would kill him. There was no sun out on the day he would die, but he could nearly imagine the shining glint of the steel tip. 

_“I am not alone,”_ he choked out, the tears falling as hard as the rain now _, “Even as I stumble on the path; With my eyes closed, yet I see…”_

The elf let the arrow loose, and time seemed to slow as it flew from the podium to its destination. His thoughts turned to his father: Glover’s smiling face on Harvestmere, when he returned with a wooden sword for him to play with. They played with the sword for hours. Glover always let him win. The arrow embedded itself in his heart, and the pain stole his breath, stole his thoughts, stole his very life.

_“The Light is here.”_

Erick Donovan’s blood flowed from his mortal wound, giving great joy to the Maiden and her hunters, and as his dead body slumped down to the baseboards of the old gallows in the Nacre Palace’s courtyard, his last prayer was as lost as him. 

 

 


	47. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dissent causes troubles in Wycome, and Elain discovers that she has less control than she thought.

“...And once the lumber from Tantervale starts flowing again, we’ll be able to do even more rebuilding here, but what Sal’s conjured up here already is no less than magic.”

The senior merchant of Wycome, Rhian, boasted proudly to the small group of leaders that followed him through the newly reconstructed Jossa Square, Sal and Elain at the head, Yemet, Deshanna, and Revas with Heliwr in his arms following closely behind. Elain stared in awe at the work that had already been done, and the touching beauty the scene represented.

The Vhenadahl towered over the refitted cobblestone and freshly painted building fronts, its tender, green buds unfurling to reveal the hardy foliage hidden inside as spring settled fully over the Free Marches. The air of rebirth within the city itself mirrored the seasonal blooming of the great tree; the city elves, still recovering from the harrowing debacle of the city’s leadership, slowly crawled from their own protective shells to return to their lives. They brought Wycome itself back to life, filling the wind with the smell of baking fish, clean clothing, and hope that the future may treat them better than the dark winters of past.

“I can’t take much credit for all this,” Sal lightly argued with the merchant as he leaned against the trunk of the tree that represented the community he was so central to, “Everyone just wants to get back to normal. No more magic and battles and murders. Just the day to day.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. Your leadership may be understated, but you’ve pulled together everyone in a way that is remarkable,” Elain complimented him as she marveled over the difference three weeks had made, “None of these people would have ‘ _normal_ ’ to go back to without you.”

“Yeah, Sal. Real bang up. You got folks believing that things can be different this time. Wonder if it will be.”

The comment Yemet paid him was frigid, and the small group fidgeted at the underlying message. All but for Rhian, of course. He beamed at the _potential_ , all the things that could be once human rule returned to the city, but the rest of them were elves, and there was much uncertainty in it. None of the other Marcher cities had sent word yet, none of them had reached out to the Dalish or City Elf leadership. There was an unsettling silence that kept them on edge. The Duke may be dead now, but the Free Army still loomed. 

“I’ll try my best to make sure it is, son. Last thing I want is for this all to go back to how it was before. That was no way for our people to live,” Sal answered him diplomatically, and Elain’s lips curved gently at the sight. 

They had worked closely together since the fall of the Nacre Palace, backed heavily by her secret agreement with the Inquisition’s agent, Lady Volant. If the alienage was rebuilt and made to be better, more livable, more integrated with the city itself, then Elain and Clan Lavellan stood a better chance to gain a foothold in the trade center of the Free Marches, and Sal and the city elves themselves stood to gain self-sufficiency and power that the local government would have no choice but to recognize. The union would make both groups stronger, and Elain had placed herself firmly in the center of the efforts to come out strongest of all. 

For those who would deem it selfish, they need only look at the idyllic scene of the reconstructed Jossa Square and see that Elain sought the enrichment of everyone around her in order to gain the same for herself. At least, that is what she liked to tell herself. Seeing the city elves recovering gave her a strong sense of accomplishment and pride, but her sights were still set on the horizon beyond. Even if her motives produced altruistic results, Elain had a difficult time to stop and enjoy them. 

“You’re not planning on rebuilding the walls?” Revas cut through her reflections when he asked Sal about the boundary walls that had been destroyed in the attack on the alienage. He stared at the scorch marks stained into the rubble that remained, gently rubbing Heliwr’s back at the same time. 

Sal shook his head, but Rhian answered for him, “Oh no no! We want to show our support for our elven neighbors now, and barricading them into their own city quarter is in the past. Without them, this city wouldn’t run, so it should be as open to them as the rest of us!”

The merchant patted Sal’s shoulder as he bragged over doing the bare minimum, fully believing it was some great gesture of goodwill instead. Sal smiled and nodded his head in agreement, but Revas did not smile. 

“So the city elves have no fortified position to defend themselves from if the Free Army decides to finish the Duke’s purge. They’ll be cornered in here and slaughtered like _rabbits_ ,” he spit the word like a curse, knowing full well the implication of the slur, “How very Orlesian.”

Rhian looked positively scandalized. He sucked in a deep breath, and his face turned red from the forthrightness of Revas’ statement. Elain shot him a look to quiet himself in front of the merchant, but she knew he’d ignore it. Ever since the executions, he had been on edge about the potential of an even greater battle being brought to Wycome’s doorsteps. None of the progress made here mattered to him when the threat of it all being undone breathed down his vulnerable neck.

“It’s premature to even consider that,” Deshanna stepped in, ever the mediator, “Once the other Marcher Cities learn of the red lyrium plot, I’m sure that they will see reason. After all, they do not want to be the only entity in Thedas who supported agents of that awful creature that caused the Breach.”

 

“Yeah. We didn’t do nothin’ wrong here,” Sal agreed, “And the leaders of the other cities ain’t unreasonable. They ain’t just gonna send an army without getting the full story.”

Elain tilted her head slightly in her agreement and approval, a subtle indication of Sal properly conveying the message they had both discussed. Humans were a temperamental bunch, and if they knew the elves were nervous about the Free Army, then they’d pull any support as soon as they saw banners in the distance. They still might. It was integral that they cultivated these allies, even if these allies were obtuse.

“Of course,” Revas was not convinced, but he had the perceptiveness and experience in working with Elain long enough to know when to back down. So he did, but still drew their son closer to his chest, his tension clear. 

“After seeing all we’ve done here, they will probably thank you for dealing with the Duke! The docks haven’t been this well organized in years,” Rhian gushed, unable to sense the tension in the air, “Speaking of which, you have to see how well the patrols are run there, Keeper Deshanna. You know I was apprehensive about integrating this _‘Elven Guild’_ as a guard force, but they’re surprisingly disciplined…”

Rhian began moving again, pushing on his tour, expecting the group to follow. For the most part they did, but as Elain went to move along with them, she was stopped by a light touch on her arm and Revas and Yemet giving her dark looks. She closed her eyes briefly in irritation, but knew that they needed to be appeased as much as the humans.

“I must take my son back for a feeding, and Revas and Yemet need to get back to their work. Go on without us,” Elain explained to Sal and Deshanna, making sure to smile warmly as she did, and they nodded absently before following the merchant down Carnation Street and towards the docks. She turned her attention back to the scowling pair and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Something is bothering you.”

“Of fucking course there’s something bothering me!” Revas whispered loudly, trying not to wake Heliwr, “They’re not rebuilding the walls! A lot of good fresh paint is going to do when the Free Army purges the elves here!”

“They’d be foolish to do that,” she shrugged, pressing her own concern down to placate her Banal’ras, “The city runs on the backs of its servants. Without the elves here, Wycome falls apart.”

“Guild members ain’t servants,” Yemet interrupted, “And we’re the ones who fought with you halla shit eaters. Servants serve, but the Guild put its neck out there, and everyone who scrammed out of the city knows that. You and your kind will get wiped out for sure. Then, they’re gonna come hunt us.”

“Sal and I won’t let that happen,” she assured him calmly. 

“You’re not going to have a choice in the matter. Sal is too busy sucking up to the humans to protect his own people,” Revas responded acidly, “You and him both are spending too much time trying to make them happy instead of focusing on fortification and training anyone who can hold a weapon.”

“And why should I? You might not like it, but ingratiating ourselves with the merchants and caravan traders and dockworkers and sailors is going to gain us more goodwill than locking the city down,” she snapped back, annoyed that he was being so contentious to her in front of Yemet. It was borderline insubordination, but else was new with him, “Besides, the Inquisitor was made aware of the situation, and I’m positive that she has plans in motion to work out any animosity that may be brewing.”

“You sure about that?” Yemet questioned her, “Or is she just usin’ you to get rid of the Duke, then forgettin’ you exist when it means it could lose her noble friends from the Marcher Cities?” 

Elain shook her head and frowned deeply, “She would never do that. We know her, and she is true to her word. She would not let her family suffer the consequences of her plans.”

“It’s been over a year since we last saw her. People change.”

Revas placed the insinuation in front of her like a dog places its kill at its owner’s feet; it was bloodied and gruesome, and meant to cause a reaction from her. Elain was sick of his pushing and prodding, and knew that things between them were degrading more and more the longer they spent in this city. Heliwr had made things easier at first; he provided a sort of tender sentimentality in Revas that transferred onto her as well, and the first day or so was a warmth shared between them. Now, uncertainty and lingering resentment caused some distance between them, and she knew the tension would break soon. She had just hoped it wouldn’t be in front of someone like Yemet.

“Sar’een doesn’t change,” she said lowly to him, “And you owe her your life. We all do. At least try to have some respect for that.”

His mouth tightened into a thin line, but softened when Heliwr gave a little hiccup in his arms. His tiny head rolled back and forth as he began to wake from his slumber. 

“We still need to fortify the city. The burden cannot fall on us again to fight through this without any support,” he said quietly, so as not to disturb their son, “Sal and Deshanna are working the shems over, so either you do it, or you’re going to have a mutiny with the hunters.”

“And the Guild,” Yemet cut in, “We know Sal’s doin’ it to make life better for us here, but that ain’t enough. We ain’t puttin’ our lives on the line without havin’ a say in how we fight.”

Elain looked between the two of them, her irritation at its peak, “You’re threatening me.”

“More like making you do your damned job,” Revas corrected her, “Lots of talk about your martial prowess and pursuit of people who will fuck with us at that execution, but now that the hunters and Guild members are looking to you to help them, we’re spending time oohing and aweing over wet paint on wood shacks and crumbled masonry where stone walls used to be.”

Yemet nodded his agreement, and they both stared at her, waiting for an answer to the accusations. She felt her cheeks burning with her anger. The nerve of this...after all she had done, after all she had fought for, after all of this...no one trusted her. They thought her some pompous fool who was all talk and no action. She led them to this cesspool of a city, stood against the Tevinter agents and their lyrium thralls, spearheaded the rebuilding of Wycome --making it better than it had ever been before-- and this was the thanks she got. Uncertain glances and confrontational remarks. She had had enough.

“The walls will not be rebuilt,” she straightened her back and held her chin up, “I agree with Sal and the merchants: it’s time for a new era of transparency and cooperation. Going back to hiding in hovels and safehouses is not an option. Wycome will do better, and it will do better without separating its citizens.”

“Well then maybe the Guild won’t feel safe anymore and maybe they won’t want to patrol the docks and Bazaar anymore,” Yemet challenged her, “And then maybe your new, pretty Wycome goes back to shit when Carta and Coterie overrun the streets again.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “Revas, tell our illustriousGuildmaster that I do _not_ take threats lightly. It does him no good to challenge the person who has been a staunch defender of his people since our arrival.”

“Unless my peoplegot the title ‘ _Maiden_ ’, I’d have to disagree. This Maiden I’ve been hearin’ so much about is the only one who’s gettin’ a lot of glory. Seems she single-handedly saved Wycome, by some accounts.”

Yemet stared her down, unconcerned with her lecturing, and by the stone-cold look in his eye, entirely unimpressed as well. Elain wasn’t used to these disruptions in her work, especially when it was unanimously agreed upon in Council. No one had raised objections to bettering the lives of the city elves here; not even the city elves themselves. Sal had been aggressive with his rebuilding efforts and getting the Guild in line, so this sudden contention was an annoyance at best, a sign of things deeper brewing at worst. She took a step closer to the stubborn Guildmaster, determined to make him see how out of his league he was, and Yemet followed her lead. They glowered at one another, face to face now, both too prideful to admit defeat.

“Are you denying my involvement in this? Do you think I don’t deserve any of the credit I am getting?” she questioned him lightly, almost sweetly, a cloying tone that was more spoiled fruit than honey, “If that’s the case, I’d hate to remind you of how I found your _vagabond club_ when I arrived in the alienage: holed up in Sal’s bar, waiting for someone to come save them. I will not apologize for being the sword your people asked to wield.”

“We didn’t ask for no _Dalish_ to come in and take over, alright. Get that straight in your fluffed up little head right now,” he argued back at her, his voice rising with his anger, “You waltz in here, take over the Maker-damned city, then expect us to fall in line with your orders like loyal little soldiers, marchin’ to your drumbeats. But I’ve been livin’ on the streets here for my whole life. I know what the shems do to elves who raise their voices, and it ain’t pretty. So when I say you need to prepare for them to come in here with a real army, _you better fuckin’ believe it_.”

Yemet was becoming very heated, very quickly, but Elain couldn’t back down now. Her work was important. It would save this city. It was what she believed Sar’een and the Inquisition planned all along: from their entry into the city all the way up to her deal with Lady Volant. Elain knew deliberate calculation very well, and it was clear what was happening here. She just needed to convince the Guildmaster of it.

“So you want to burrow behind walls and hide in the dark again? The humans have treated you like less than dirt, so you want to let yourself be trampled under their feet?”

“I want to spare my folks from getting killed! What part of that don’t you understand!” he spat at her, “You get to leave this shit hole! You get to go back to frolicking in the forest and picking berries and not worrying about whether or not you’re gonna end up in the bottom of the Minanter! We don’t get that option. We don’t have that choice. Whitewashed walls ain’t gonna change anyone’s mind, and as soon as your hunters leave, we’re gonna to be put in our place.”

Elain rolled her eyes at his inability to understand the subtle machinations of the politics involved, and found herself wishing she had asked Sal to stay and assist her. Thankfully, the old bartender understood. He grasped the importance of changing the system itself in order to create a better life for his people in Wycome. The Guildmaster was simply falling back on old fears to sustain him.

She waved her hand in his face flippantly, impatient with Yemet’s complaints, “I have no time to argue this. You are refusing to see things beyond what your little Guild has always done, because it’s too difficult for you to leave the nest you’ve created here. Sal and I have bigger visions for this city, and you will have to trust that...that…”

Yemet cocked his eyebrow in confusion at her trailing off, but the distraction was troubling. Beyond the Guildmaster, beyond the Vhenadahl, beyond the courtyard itself, a lone hunter was running to her, fear painted clearly on his face.

“What’s Arthwyn doing here?” Revas thought out loud at he approached their waiting group. His face was red from exertion and his breath was in loud gasps. He had obviously ran the entire way from wherever he came. Patrols were under Den’s control though. Elain had no idea where he had been stationed that day. 

“Oh thank the Creators I found you two!” he shouted as his feet thumped against the stone street. He slid to a stop in front of her, his lungs heaving, “You have to go to the Nacre Palace! Now!”

“What’s wrong?” she asked him, a sudden concern knotting her gut, “What’s going on?”

“The Warlord got news from the Ethinan: the Free Army is marching! They’re coming to take back the city.”

“Shit,” Yemet kicked the dust on the walkway roughly, “Shit shit shit shit _shit_.”

Arthwyn’s brow creased in a deep frown, and he placed his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath.

“There’s more,” he managed to gasp out, “Word is that the Free Army wants retribution for Duke Antoine’s death...by hanging the Maiden from the city walls for all the Free Marchers to see.”

“Fuck!” It was Revas who cursed this time, much louder than Yemet’s declarations, causing Heliwr to fuss and whimper in his arms. Elain reached over and took her son, cradling him gently, close to her chest, perhaps a little tighter than she had intended. She couldn’t help it; the walls that she had built seem to be crumbling around her and she needed something to hold onto. They expected the Free Army to come, but the call for her own execution had not been anticipated. 

“Other Council members were there when Den found out. Master Vhannas and Kellen rallied members against you and Deshanna. They want to abandon the city,” Arthwyn laid out the scene to them, and with each word, the walls crumbled more and more, “Den and Sohta are trying to fight back, but everyone’s afraid. Den sent me to get you back so you can help.”

“Yemet,” Revas, not hesitating as all of Elain’s well-laid plans began to crack, turned to the Guildmaster, “Go get Sal and our Keeper. And that merchant too. Get them to the Nacre Palace as soon as you can. We’ll head you off.”

“Got it.”

Yemet sprinted down Carnation street, shouting to other members of his Guild who were patrolling the district, an attempt to gather support. Elain only hoped it would be enough. 

“Where’s Warlord Threlen? The Hand?” she suddenly remembered how to think clearly, and the Diceni were conspicuously absent from Arthwyn’s report. 

“Both are on the training rotation in the foothills of the Vimmarks. Warlord Den sent a runner, but it might be too late.”

“We need to go, El. The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to get this under control,” Revas warned her before turning once more to the ragged hunter, “Go outside to the city gates and wait for Threlen to return. I want you to intercept him and tell him that I am personally giving him permission to rally Lavellan’s hunters. Den will agree to it, so don’t worry about chain of command. Understood?”

Arthwyn nodded his agreement, then took off in the opposite direction of Yemet, heading through the Bazaar and the large gates that led into the city. Elain stood nearly frozen for a moment, afraid of what they’d find when they arrived to the palace. Revas, however, was not inclined to stand and wait. He pressed his hand gently against the small of her back, and urged her to move with him. She followed him as briskly as she could through the market stalls of the Bazaar, up the cracked marble streets of Poppy Avenue, all while trying to keep Heliwr comforted in her arms. 

“If Threlen and Aneth’ail don’t intervene, we might not have a choice but to let the clan go,” Revas expressed his concerns as they swiftly followed their path to the palace, “I knew we should’ve been fortifying the alienage. I fucking knew it…”

“Fortifying the alienage will do nothing against an army,” she replied absently, her own thoughts scattered and hazy. It was difficult to swallow that she had not expected the Free Army to come for her. Why had she thought they wouldn’t? Nothing was clear, and it made her second guess every decision she’d made since she arrived, despite the danger in it. 

“It would’ve given us time,” he responded bitterly, “Now we’ll be down on numbers, split in half when hunters start to deflect, and to top it all off, you’re making an enemy of the Guild. You’re spending too much time setting up a chessboard to make your moves, and the humans aren’t even playing the same fucking game.”

Heliwr began to fuss again, his whimpers turning into short, pitiful cries. It was the last thing she wanted to deal with right now, but leave it to her son to make matters worse at the most inconvenient moment, “I was spending time building alliances. Once the Free Army arrives, the merchants and sailors and remaining nobles will vouch for our--”

Revas held out his arm and stopped her dead on her tracks, then pointed across the drawbridge that led to the courtyard of the palace, “It’s your brother.”

It was. Keeper Paeris and their father stood further in the courtyard, not far from where the executions took place a few days ago. They seemed to be talking tersely, though not loud enough for Elain or Revas to hear, but their faces couldn’t conceal that this was not a friendly family conversation. Truthfully, she didn’t want to know what they were talking about. She merely wanted to intercept the plans of mutiny and pull the proverbial aravel back under her control, but it seemed they’d have no choice but go through her estranged father and rival of a brother to get there. 

Elain handed Heliwr back to Revas, “Take him, and let me do the talking. I suspect my family isn’t standing there by coincidence.”

“No shit,” he answered under his breath, but took Heliwr without question, “You need me to be the muscle?”

“Yes. Quietly. Don’t take your eyes off either one, and don’t jump in unless it’s absolutely necessary,” she gave him direction, certain he’d follow. When the stakes were high, she could always depend on him to listen, and for them to fall back into easy partnership that has given her enough pull and power that she wasn’t already strung up for her misdeeds.

She stiffened her back and led them across the drawbridge, boots stomping loudly on the hardwood underneath their feet, making as much noise as possible. They needed to know she was coming and she needed them to know that it should still inspire fear when she did. The Maiden with her Mantle was still a force to be reckoned with, and the silent loom of her Shadow put weight behind that. Not everything was lost yet. Not yet. Not while she still breathed.

Vhannas and her brother heard their approach, and almost simultaneously, both their faces were wiped clean of any emotion, any vestiges of their quiet, but obviously heated, conversation. Her father shot her a malice-filled glare as she crossed under the stone arch entrance to the palace courtyard, but her brother remained as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment. This was not going to be an easy play, and her gut felt like a rock, but she was more determined than she was fearful. She’d come to far to lose it all now.

“Where is Warlord Den? Word has come from the Ethinan and I need to plan countermeasures immediately,” she didn’t give them a chance to open the conversation, and instead, asserted herself as the one guiding the situation. 

They approached her father and brother, stopping just before them, and while there seemed to be a flurry of activity from other elves in and around the courtyard, the entire world stood still for Elain there. She recalled the last time they all three spoke, not even a week before on the Council, and it made the stone in her gut ache. The whole scene seemed fragile; as if she moved, it would all break like glass.

“That won’t be necessary,” Paeris answered her coolly, but she kept her eyes on Vhannas instead. Acknowledging Paeris as the leader here would be a mistake. It would give him power that he didn’t earn over the situation, and Elain refused to let that happen. He would have to fight for it, and so would Vhannas. Her father met her gaze darkly, and the tension in the air was thick enough to slice. 

“Yes, it will be necessary,” she answered her brother, but kept her eyes centered on the craftmaster, “It seems hysteria and cowardice has poisoned those working under our father, and they wish to mutiny against their own. I wonder where these poor, misguided artisans had these ideas implanted in their head from.”

“A mystery for the ages, it seems,” Paeris replied, his head turning towards Vhannas too once he untangled her game, “One has to think there is a lack of leadership that they could so easily fall apart under the pressure.”

Vhannas, for all his faults, was no fool. He realized his children were turning their attention on him to take his standing away, but if he felt threatened, he did not show it. The Craftmaster tilted his head slightly, as if questioning their motives.

“The pressure of what? Imminent death and destruction? You cannot blame them for not volunteering their heads for the human’s chopping block,” he answered them politely, calmly, then adjusted the cuff on the sleeve of his shirt that sat immaculately under his forge tunic, “Perhaps if the Council followed my suggestion of letting the Free Army having what they seek out in the city, then they wouldn’t be so nervous. The Dalish pride themselves on survival, not martyrdom for a disgraced spiritual leader whose every word is blasphemy against the Creators.”

He focused squarely on Elain now, and his motions stilled entirely, “Despite what the Maiden thinks, she’s not a god the People are willing to lay their lives down for. There is no fault in being afraid that she will ask them of it anyways.”

“I would never expect them to do that, nor have I ever asked that of them,” Elain knew that if she responded emotionally, her father would get the upperhand. Rather, she stilled the anger welling inside her chest, and spoke to him coldly, “What I do expect is adherence to the Imperative. We do not abandon our own to preserve ourselves.”

“I would hardly call the city elves our own,” Vhannas said, “Far from it, in fact. I believe even they agree with that sentiment, and it seems only you harbor this feeling of loyalty to them. But what can I expect from the scion who shunned her duty for more... _pedestrian_ pursuits.”

She didn’t need to look behind her to know that Revas would tense at the hit against him, but for all his temper, he knew how to exercise discipline when it came to her father. It was a quiet relief, but it did not take away the sting of Vhannas’ barb. 

“Calling the most elite hunter in the North --and possibly in all of the clans-- _pedestrian_ …,” she looked at her nails, picking under the beds lazily, pretending to be bored and unimpressed with his criticisms, “Really Vhannas, this childishness is unbecoming. Are you so upset that your word means so little in this situation you must lower yourself to such petty insults?”

 

“You’re free to criticize me about _lowering myself_ when there isn’t a crying infant reminding the world of your indiscretions,” he replied just as boredly, a testament to his ability to keep his emotions in check, “And _pedestrian_ is kinder than he deserves, but if I were to call him for what he really is, _a beast_ , it would only suggest that he was lured mindlessly into your bed…”

He looked at Revas now, lost to everyone but the Banal’ras, his eyes hardened steel, “...And we all know he is far more capable of manipulation than he lets on. Even beasts can be clever and lead proud hunters astray, taking them down a path of doom. Such a shame that the Maiden would drag everyone else with her as she followed him without question.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” she declared. He was trying to change the tone and topic of the conversation and trying to bait Revas into a fight, “Now unless you have anything productive to say, we’ll be taking our leave. Matters of mutiny need my attention, it seems.”

In a truly unsettling display, Vhannas smiled at her declaration. His teeth were bright and shining in the light of the day, and his lips stretched over them menacingly. Her father never smiled. It was nearly terrifying.

“Matters have already been attended to. The Diceni Keeper saw to that,” the words floated out of that ghastly grin, clinging in the air like dangerous little daggers, waiting to prick her with their innocuousness. Yet, the Craftmaster turned to leave instead, leaving those words lingering behind, but not before releasing more to settle in her mind and unsettle her heart, “You’re simply not needed, Maiden. I suggest learning to swallow that tincture. This is only the beginning.”

He walked back through the courtyard, an ominous spectre that everyone felt but looked away from, afraid his gaze would fall on them. Those who remained watched in silence as he entered the Nacre Palace under the rebuilt doors, and disappear into the darkness inside. It left Elain cold. 

Part of her knew she’d already lost. He was baiting her as much as Revas, and though neither had risen to the challenge, somehow she felt it didn’t matter. Vhannas was doing it because he knew she was defeated before she even arrived and was merely jumping on an opportunity to punch down on her further. When she turned to face her brother, the gentle smirk that turned up the corner of his mouth only slightly seemed to confirm it. 

“He’s right, you know, as loathsome as it is to admit. Medicine is always difficult for children to swallow, but it’s for their own good.”

“What have you done?” she asked Paeris bluntly, accusative, angrily. He had made some move, some play, some plot that put weight behind their father’s words. She just knew it.

“I just cleaned up the mess you made for yourself,” he answered her easily, confidently, nearly smugly, “Lavellan’s Council wanted to leave, to run with their tail tucked between their legs. And they refused to acknowledge Den’s authority. His fighting days are over, and they knew they’d have to lean on Warlord Threlen to lead them through this. Or worse...they’d have to lean on Revas. And they knew that Revas wouldn’t abandon the mother of his child, despite her death warrant being signed by the Free Army.”

“We never abandon our own,” Revas cut in coldly, “Especially when humans are involved.”

“Of course not,” Paeris responded in a sickly, saccharine tone, as if he was talking to a child, “Which is why I stepped in. I had to invoke my role as High Keeper of the Free Marches and override the Council’s foolish decision to retreat back into Autini. It was clear to me that the leadership in Lavellan is lacking, and that it was my duty to lead them out of this mess the Maiden dragged them into.”

“I led a successful coup on a human city that was poisoning and slaughtering our kin!” she argued back hotly, “I have led the rebuilding efforts and have made sure clean water was accessible to everyone, the humans included! Just how is this a _‘mess’_?”

“You shouted your victories over a human noble in front of humans and elves alike, bragging about your conquests as you had him executed in clear daylight. What should have been a quiet, clean affair, you turned into a spectacle for your own glory. The Free Army is marching because you gave them a name to rally against. You selfishly and stubbornly grabbed for all the glory you could, and now that you hold it in your hands, you are too blinded by it to face the fact that you sowed your own doom.”

Paeris looked at his surroundings out of the corner of his eye, gauging who could be listening in, then lowered his voice and continued, “If you had allowed the Free Marcher cities decide the fate of their own noble, there would have been peace. If you had not instigated a frenzy of gossip and tall tales for your own ego, we could’ve waited for a few weeks until the Inquisition took this over. Your hubris has led us here, and left me no choice but to take the reigns of this operation. And clan Lavellan was all too happy to let it happen. Your brand of leadership is quickly becoming dangerous...and obsolete.”

“You planned this all,” the pieces fell into place in her mind. His hands off approach to handling the situation here. His threatening to take over the operation that forced her to hurriedly execute the Duke. Aneth’ail’s breakdown that forced her to use a heavy hand at the execution to head him off. Paeris had set the board carefully, subtlety, so all blame would fall squarely on her shoulders, making it all the easier to sweep in and save everyone from her mistakes. He moved against her swiftly and mercilessly, leaving her baffled at how she did not see it sooner. 

Paeris only smiled. It was not the dark, unsettling grin her father displayed, but there was power in it none the less, “I watched you stumble over yourself in an attempt to recapture your glory from before your indiscretion, then picked up the pieces when you inevitably crashed. It was all you, Maiden. And now, between your failure to keep your oaths and your failure to lead successfully in Wycome, you have no one to blame but yourself when you are inevitably stripped of your Mantle.”

“Luckily, you won’t be the one to decide that,” she said between gritted teeth, the anger and embarrassment of the situation making her blood boil. She been played like a fiddle, “And until the day that decision is made, my authority is still intact. Now...where is Den?”

“You’re right. I won’t be the only one to decide,” he said nearly gaily. He was a cat playing with his kill now, gleefully pawing at her while she was immobile, “But you might want to show some respect and deference to me. After all...the Council decided to give you up to the Free Army and let them hang you to save the clan before I stepped in.”

“You’re lying!” Revas jumped at the remark, causing their son to cry at his father’s raised voice. He rocked and swayed him in his arms gently, trying to calm Heliwr and himself at the same time.

“Oh, if only I were. You underestimate how fearful they are, and how tight of a grip Vhannas has on the non-combatants of the clan. I do not, however, and it’s by my good will that my sister will not be left alone as a martyr for Wycome.”

“They’d never…they would never advocate for the execution of their own. Of a scion! This is unbelievable,” she was lost, swimming in the deep waters of these revelations, unable to breathe. Paeris was a undertow threatening to drown her if she didn’t escape. 

“Regardless of what you think is believable, it was what happened,” Paeris answered her sternly, the mirth he obviously felt over the situation disappeared from his voice, “And it was all due to your shortsighted goals driven by your ego. You did this to yourself, Elain, and I tire of seeing you taking everyone down with you. This operation is now under my control, and while you still maintain your authority, I will be taking it upon myself to shadow you as you work within the city. I want to confirm you are not undermining the clans, the city elves, or the Inquisition in an effort to win back some deluded sense of support.”

“You can’t…”

“I already have. Warlord Den is in guest suites of the palace. Go talk to him. I have to begin rectifying the ills you’ve caused here before the Free Army arrives and leaves me no choice but to let them take your life.”

He turned and left them without another word, leaving them slack jawed with gaping mouths in his wake. Heliwr’s cries were growing louder and louder, but neither Elain nor Revas could move. Everything she had built up, everything she had worked so hard for here...all gone. This was Paeris’ city now.

“What do we do?” Revas finally asked, his own shock making his voice subdued in that early afternoon. The world continued around them. Hunters patrolled the palace’s high walls. Artisans worked on a large loom that had been set up in the courtyard. The _thwump_ of practice weapons hitting straw targets filled the air with its solid sound, punctuating the cacophonous chatter of people working, people relaxing, people going about their daily routine. But even the mundaneness of it seemed ominous. As if all their eyes were watching her intently as they went about their business, judging her, silently condemning her. Wishing she were dead so they could move on. It shook her to her very soul.

“I don’t know,” she answered him quietly, “I don’t know.”

It was too soon to know. Paeris had pulled the rug out from under her, and it would take time to recover her balance, her standing. But now, with the Free Army marching, time was not something she had. Her whole world was crumbling apart, and there was no stopping the tears from falling from her eyes. She felt Revas’ arm wrap around her shoulder, and he kissed her wet cheek tenderly as their son’s wails filled her ears. 

This was all she had left, and there was no more time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, another chapter done! I honestly thought this would be half the length, but eh, whatever. I needed some exposition to set up all the stuff that's happening as we go into the tail end of the Wycome arc. I'm thinking there's only 6 chapters in it left. Maybe less. Then, onto the last, much shorter arc of the story. I wanted to finish this up by the end of the year, but I don't know how feasible that is, so I'm just going to keep on hacking away until it's done. 
> 
> Boy, Elain sure did dig herself in deep, didn't she???


	48. Divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een has another hard decision to make, but the choice is made clear when all options are uncovered.

The First Enchanter’s private study was surprising.

Her home in Val Royeux was opulent, to say the least. Well-preserved tapestries from the Divine era, art dating back to the height of the Imperium, Antivan furniture, Rivaini textiles, brass serving platters from Cumberland, and a sculpture carved out of obsidian procured from Tallo’s Eye in the Anderfels...it was a display of wealth and power that could match step for step any noble house in the entirety of Thedas. It never seemed overly garish or out of place, though. Every piece was carefully chosen and placed, and as one walked the grounds of Madame de Fer’s estate, one couldn’t help but see plainly the impeccable taste its owner retained.

So to see the rather cozy study was a bit jarring for Sar’een. Off of Vivienne’s entertaining room, where she hosted small fêtes for Orlais’ most powerful, there stood an unassuming dark oak door. It was so nondescript and easily missed, she had just assumed it was an entrance for servants to use. But once the door was open, there was a small world that the First Enchanter kept to herself inside. 

Bookshelves reached the high ceilings, and they were fully filled with books, tomes, and scrolls. There was some runic inscription on each shelf, Vivienne’s secret cataloguing technique that she kept meticulously under lock and key, and when the viewer neared each inscription, they glowed a dull blue in reaction to magic. Searching through her curios would be nearly impossible, unless the person searching was a mage. When Sar’een herself walked down the narrow hall of a room, the runes lit it up enchantingly for her, illuminating the stunning embossing on each hefty tome, making them glisten like gold dust. It was opulent in its own way, though much more otherworldly, instead of the manmade decadence that decorated the rich halls of the estate.

Vivienne herself sat at a large oak desk covered in scrolls and parchment at the end of the room, furiously jotting down notes as the ceiling-height stained glass window behind her set her skin and clothes on fire in the late day sun, washed in deep reads and bright blues, burnt oranges and muted yellows. It was Andraste in the glass, holding a sword, her hair crowned by a halo of gold, and the cobalt blue of background making the pristine whiteness of her gown nearly celestial. 

For all of Madame de Fer’s seemingly Orlesian taste when it came to the larger scheme of her estate, this small room painted an entirely different picture. Instead of the scent of freshly baked honeyed pastries inviting guests into her home, her study smelled of wood and parchment and ink and sweet smoke from a single oil burning lamp situated on the corner of her desk. Flanked on each side, wall to wall bookshelves, and right next to her, a small table filled with potion bottles and freshly used mortar and pestle. The closer and closer Sar’een got to her desk, the more the smell of afternoon sun and bitter herbs came to her, and she realized what astounded her most about this scholarly hideaway.

It reminded her of home.

Not her cold, stone loft in Skyhold, or the private suite Vivienne had provided in their stay in her estate before the Winter Palace. It reminded her of her yurt in the dead of winter outside of the Vimmarks: burning cedar logs on her small brazier, the smell of well-worn ancient books, and the bitter pungency of the healing reagents Paeris made while she studied. Though the study itself was quite chilly, it still felt warm, intimate. Sar’een could see why Vivienne would use it for her own downtime instead of meetings and entertaining. This was a refuge in the ornamental world she had come to know through her time in the Inquisition.

“Inquisitor, so good to see you.”

Vivienne broke the spell the study had placed on her as she looked up from her work and greeted her warmly. She waved her hand gently towards the velvet lined reading chair opposite of her at her desk, and Sar’een sat graciously. A gentle air of comfortable companionship settled over them both, and she found herself smiling at the First Enchanter. The first smile she had found herself giving since the death of Celene. Here, in this study, Vivienne had created a sanctuary of peace and solitude, free from the excess and stresses of the world. Sar’een wondered if she could find a place like this back in Skyhold.

“Did you have something you wanted to discuss?”

Reality came crashing back down to her at the question. She had come here for a reason. A very important reason. A decision was weighing on her mind and her heart, and she had no one she could turn to that truly understood. And naturally, as will all her decisions as of late, it could potentially change the world.

“Yes,” she started, her voice low and measured, “I was approached by a group of grand clerics yesterday morning when we arrived back from Halamshiral. They wanted to talk with me about some very important Chantry matters in the presence of the Left and Right Hands of the Divine. Cassandra is still at Skyhold, so it wasn’t possible, and I told them that, but they were insistent.”

“I’m sure,” Vivienne added before she picked up the small porcelain cup filled with tea and took a sip.

“They were adamant, as you can assume,” she continued, “But so was I. After all that happened at the Winter Palace, I didn’t have the mental energy to deal with the situation. It is very important though, and I can’t avoid it forever. Once we get back to Skyhold next week, the whispers and covert meetings are probably going to turn into loud declarations. The Chantry is growing desperate.”

“They want you to help them convince Leliana or Cassandra to ascend as Divine,” Vivienne surmised, placing her cup down, “It’s not surprising, given the outcome of Halamshiral. The death of the Empress threw a wrench in their wheel, so to speak. There is no longer any unifying voice in the South…”

“Except for the Inquisition,” she finished for her.

“Precisely,” Vivienne leaned forward in her high-backed chair ever so slightly, her posture still perfect, “Which is why they came to you.”

“Why not go to Cassandra or Leliana directly though? I’m a Dalish elf. I have no stake in who runs the Chantry.”

“Darling, you cannot honestly believe that. As a Dalish elf, you’re stakes are higher than most. Was it not an Exalted March that left your people as they are today?” the First Enchanter posited, and Sar’een nodded in confirmation.

“You’re right,” she sighed, “I think I’m still at a point of disbelief over it all. Having all this power and influence in my hands is foreign to me, so I keep coming up with excuses in my head why it shouldn’t fall on my shoulders.”

“And they remain just that: excuses. The Winter Palace is proof that you are capable. You must trust yourself,” she reached out and tapped Sar’een’s hand gently, comfortingly, before retreated her arm back to its spot on her parchment, “Now tell me: who do you think the Chantry should throw their support behind as Divine?”

Sar’een fidgeted nervously in her seat, “I don’t know. Leliana seems to have good ideas about wanting to let everyone serve the Maker, including elves, but it feels presumptuous to me. Why would the people who’ve been trampled over by the Chantry want to serve it?”

“A good question,” Vivienne looked down towards her work again, picking up her quill and scribbling some note on the pristine parchment under her hand, “Please continue. I am listening.”

“Cassandra seems very...conservative in her ideas about the Chantry. She wants to rebuild the Seekers, which is admirable, but she seems more focused on a duty to the Maker than to the people who look to the Chantry for leadership. I am not extremely well-versed on the Chant and how this all works, but her detachment from everything but her faith when it comes to service seems dangerous.”

“In what way?” she asked, not looking up from her work.

“Well, it’s kind of the same for Leliana. They both define themselves through their faith. Everyone knows the story of how Leliana said the Maker wanted her to help the Hero of Ferelden. And Cassandra herself asked me, a Dalish elf, why I couldn’t believe in the Maker too. My whole position as Inquisitor seems like some divine writ to them,” Sar’een stopped, then chewed on her lip nervously, suddenly aware of the danger of her line of thinking, but she trusted Vivienne to be discreet and understanding, “It’s the zealotry that’s dangerous. Dalish believe in our Creators, but we never hold an individual accountable for the path of our worship alone. It’s a path that would lead to things that could undermine our spirituality for sake of following something blindly for a sense of safety. I would never trust someone who was so vocal in their fervent belief of the Creators to be a High Keeper.”

“So your answer to who should be the next Divine is neither?” Vivienne seemed incredulous of her reasoning, “Though I believe Leliana is the more unstable candidate, Cassandra is a strong leader. She would restore order among the chaos and listen to voices of reason when necessary.”

“Except when it goes against what she thinks the Maker will want,” she responded gloomily, “All this religion with the Chantry is so final. Why can’t I pick from a less entrenched candidate?”

The corners of Vivienne’s mouth curved into a small smirk, “Because you’d be fighting against centuries of tradition, my dear. And it’s a fight you possibly couldn’t win. Better to guide the best available candidate to the Sunburst Throne yourself instead of letting chaos decide matters.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she pouted, slumping in her chair. 

The whole affair was frustrating. And uncomfortable. It wasn’t as foreboding as the decision she had to make at Halamshiral, but the shockwaves of her choice could be just as long reaching. A strong Divine could curb Gaspard, if needed, and if they were set on the Sunburst Throne by the Inquisition, they’d be much more willing to accept suggestion. Or less willing, if they felt the Inquisition was headed in the wrong direction. Leliand and Cassandra, despite their faults, were both loyal to the organization, and to Sar’een herself, to some extent. She wasn’t exactly sure of how far that loyalty extended though. It’d be a shame to have to test it and find it lacking at a crucial turning point.

She gazed up at the stained glass window depicting Andraste that stood statuesque behind Vivienne. The Prophetess glowed divinely in the afternoon sun, her square jaw and wheat golden hair the peak of physical beauty to Orlesian artists, and her gaze spoke to something deep within Sar’een. This was the kind of woman who could lead a nation, inspire unfaltering loyalty, and change the world . She had been betrayed, but even in her end, she stood resolute and moved Hessarian to convert and repent. Her faith was powerful. Her conviction was a weapon. Her voice lifted up nations and paved a new world. And according to Vivienne, the Divine should have all those qualities in order to lead the faithful prosperously. 

The thought struck her like a fist, like an invisible thrust of force magic. As the towering glass replica of the Maker’s Bride lit the room, so did she illuminate the person who had proven herself time and again to be steadfast in her determination. 

“What if there was another candidate?” she threw the question out into the ether of the magic of that study, hoping it would grow into something more, “What if there was someone better suited to sit on the Sunburst Throne?”

“Like who?” Vivienne asked her absently as she still worked on her writing. 

“Like you.”

The scritching of her quill against the parchment stopped abruptly, leaving the ink pooling slightly under the point. Vivienne did not lift her head, but instead, looked up at her with just her eyes. They were questioning and shining under the cool facade of the eyelids brushed with a thin line of gold dust. 

“What interesting places your mind visits, darling,” she said coyly, a smile spreading across her lips. Lifting her quill, she set it back in its ink pot, then leaned herself back in her chair, folding her hands across her lap gracefully, “Tell me more.”

“What more is there to say? Out of all three of you, you’re the only one who has told me to prioritize and engage with the people over the Maker himself. If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t even be able to say you truly believed the Maker exists. For you, it’s not just enough to believe. You know how important it is to be the leader that Andraste was. To be the guidance that the Maker is.”

“Don’t you think it would the Chantry might refuse to put the Vestments of the Divine on a mage? Humans are not like the Dalish; they are not comfortable with magic in their everyday life,” she pointed out diplomatically. It was a test.

“Maybe they should get comfortable. And maybe the way to do that is with a mage on the Sunburst Throne,” Sar’een replied easily, “You know the importance of facilitating a good relationship with mages and non-mages. You know how important educating mages is. You’ve seen what the best Circles have to offer, and the worst. I think you could do great things for the Chantry and the mages, Vivienne.”

“Your faith in me is inspiring, my dear. And your reasoning is intriguing…”

They were interrupted by a succession of fast, frantic knocks against the heavy door leading into the study. It rung through their idyllic sanctuary like a broken bell and dispelled the magic --real or believed-- that floated in the air. 

“And a discussion for another time, it seems,” Vivienne said to her quietly before turning her attention to the door, “Come in!”

With a rush of silks and worry, Josephine pushed through the door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide. 

“Inquisitor! We’ve received word from Wycome!”

Sar’een pushed off the velvet chair and stood up immediately, her heart hardening to stone in her chest. It was the moment she had been counting on for weeks. Now, the time had come to see if her plots had bore the fruit she had hoped, “Please report.”

“There are several reports from several agents, including your own clan, but a few things are clear,” her ambassador briefed her quickly, “The Duke of Wycome was executed for his actions against the elves by someone called ‘ _The Maiden_ ’. Lady Volant confirms this and claims to be working closely with her. At the word of the Duke’s execution, the Free Army is gathering to march. They want retribution for the death of the leader of one of the city states, and have made clear they hold this Maiden responsible. Your clan requests your aid in solving this matter before more blood is shed.”

“Then they shall have it. I will join the lingering troops we have in Kirkwall and meet the Free Army at Wycome myself,” Sar’een began to walk out of Vivienne’s study, her thoughts focusing on the task at hand. Josephine gave a short gasp, but followed quickly behind her, the soft footsteps of her silk shoes making gentle pats against the marble floors of Vivienne’s entertaining hall now, “Have Leliana call on Ambassador Briala. I want her response by nightfall.”

“Of course,” Josephine affirmed, “What should we tell her?”

“That we need her ready to lead us through her Eluvian network so I can get to the Free Marches quickly,” they passed by scrambling servants who moved quickly to get out of their way. Sar’een paid no mind but to the task at hand. She needed to be ready.

“And that the Inquisition will make good on its word sooner than expected.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! A much shorter chapter than usual, but I didn't want to cut this down in order to get it to fit in the last chapter. 
> 
> In case you hadn't guessed it yet, we're finally FINALLY having the crossover between worlds. Sar'een and the rest of Clan Lavellan haven't seen each other since chapter 5, so it should be very, very interesting! >:3


	49. Conviction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain and Revas struggle to communicate; Old Bida lights a fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicide ideation/suicidal thoughts

Elain woke to the sound of metal hitting metal, a soft clink that was nearly imperceptible over loud croaking of the seagulls hovering over the city and the louder cries at the auctions taking place in the Bazaar. But it was enough to drag her from her deep, restful sleep, and she could only guess the source of the noise. 

She opened her eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the late morning sun, and the outline of Revas buckling his belt and attaching his axe to its holster filled her vision, though the sleep still lingering in her eyes made it seem like a hazy dream. The sun shone brightly against him, backlighting his blonde hair so intensely, it looked as though a golden crown encircled his head. Elain wondered if perhaps she was still dreaming, if her mind filling in what her heart so desired to give her some sense of peace. She liked this dream Revas. He looked calm and thoughtful instead of the perpetual frustration and anger that settled over him as of late. He dressed himself with a hollow monotony, leaving his face impassive, emotionless, but not distant, not cold. This was the Revas she needed right now, though she wanted another one more. The one that left everything plaguing his mind behind when they were together, focusing on them and only them, shedding his skin and leaving his entire soul bared for her alone. Elain missed that Revas more than anything. 

But that Revas seemed to have been lost somewhere along the way, with no beacon from a dream Elain to guide him back. Instead, they were two leaves, brittle and tenuous, fluttering on the wind, edging close enough to each other to touch and spin in a flurry of passion, before separating again, floating near one another but still alone, guided by each changing breeze. It made her heart ache for him, for them, for what they were, what they could be, what they will never be again. There were moments of bliss, like the previous evening, when they let their burdens go for long enough to explore each other, but those moments were becoming few and far between.She missed it terribly. And yet, his golden crown of hair still gleamed bright and real, not a dream, and her eyes watered at the sight. She stared at him through heavy-lids brimming with humbling tears, soaking in this Revas before her illusion was shattered. 

It was Heliwr’s sudden whimpering that made it all fall apart.

Elain did not fail to see the irony in it. Their son had complicated everything and helped lead them to this bittersweet stage in their relationship. Bittersweet in that their love was still there, but far too often obscured by a sense of duty, an insatiable drive, their own secrets that they no longer shared. Too many things came between them now, both physical and emotional. Before Heliwr, Elain was a Maiden in her prime, with a devoted Shadow who would kill and be killed in her name, and nothing came between them. It may not have been perfect, but it was perfect for her. She had everything she had ever wanted, and stood to gain all the more had this not have happened. 

His crying grew louder, as it always did, and she closed her eyes once again, praying to escape this and return to the greatness and glory she once had. Anything to escape this.

“He needs fed,” Revas stated laconically as he finished his preparations for the day and picked up their son from his basket, laying him on the bed to change his swaddling and soiled small clothes. 

“I know,” she said before burying her face in the soft pillow under her head, distraught that her last days may be spent being refused by Heliwr. But if they were her last days, she should at least try to make that connection. He wouldn’t remember her, but she’d prefer to have some happy memory of her child before having the noose strung around her neck.

With a sigh, she sat up in the bed and held her arms out to him, encouraging him to pass their son. Revas did so, careful to support his still weak neck, and as she cradled Heliwr close to her chest, his pitiful cries became screams. He always screamed in her arms. She pulled down the thin linen nightshirt she wore and guided his mouth to her breast, where he once again objected to her offering. Elain tickled his nose, expressed some milk to tempt him, switched breasts, tried everything the Hearthmatron and Nellia suggested, but he never seemed happy. Another sigh, and she reached over to his basket and pulled out a bottle of milk Nellia has gathered for her, complete with a crude, manmade nipple. When she pressed it to Heliwr’s mouth, he opened up right away and sucked away greedily.

The realization that no one needed or wanted her, even her own son, had been quick, but the acceptance was coming much slower. It was a hard thing to swallow, knowing the clan felt safer without her, and that Heliwr would be happier eating and gaining comfort from a facsimile than his own mother. Her days became shorter and shorter, and the influence she was so sure she had over everyone became less and less apparent. A wisp of a former life that only touched her unexpectedly, if at all. Revas was growing away from her, Heliwr hated her, her clan wanted to martyr her, and her brother had taken everything that she was, even with her Mantle set firmly on her shoulders. There was nothing left for her but to watch it all unravel as her end approached.

It seemed she held her breath while she waited to see if she’d live, and as the panic of the loss of air set in, she would wonder if it would better in the end if she walked to the docks and let the sea carry her away. Let the salt water fill her lungs instead, let her be as heavy and weighed down as she felt inside, let the seaweed choke her when it wrapped around her neck instead of the noose. Let the fish be the only ones to see her body fight while her soul left its prison. Let their wide, glassy eyes be what stared back at her instead of the accusing glares of her kin. 

Elain bit down on the inside of her lips harshly, drawing her thoughts away from the dark path in which they were treading, the pain grounding her to the reality of the situation. It was becoming harder and hard to do as of late. As each day passed, it seemed less and less likely that she would ever recover from the loss she suffered in Wycome, and less and less likely she’d even live to see her beloved Wilderness again. She’d die with filthy city air in her lungs and the sea on the horizon. Perhaps she’d feel less morose if she waited patiently in the valleys with the endless mountains touching the sky. Or perhaps not.

Nothing was easy to decide anymore.

“Where are you going?” she asked Revas as Heliwr finished his breakfast, sucking up the dregs of his milk.

“Debriefing the Ethinan, walking the perimeter with Yemet, training with Threlen, inspecting the hunters,” he pulled his gauntlet over his hand and secured it tightly while he spoke. She pulled the bottle from her son’s mouth, then laid him gently on her shoulder, patting his back to help him release the air he drank in along with his food.

“It’s the same thing you did yesterday,” she commented, “Can’t you stay with me and Heliwr today?”

“For what?”

Heliwr gave a burp, then a hiccup, but didn’t seem disturbed by it. He rocked his head back and forth, then nestled himself in the crook of her neck. She continued patting his back lightly, hoping he would go back to sleep.

“I’d just like to spend time with you,” she said quietly, though she was slightly annoyed she even had to explain herself, “Is there something wrong with that?”

“There is when the Free Army is a few days out from the city. You’d know that if you actually went to Den’s meetings,” he chided her. The feelings of annoyance were obviously mutual. 

“What’s the point? Paeris would just have to attend with me and try to take complete control over Lavellan’s hunters. I’ve kept him distracted with other things to avoid that.”

He ignored her response, and instead tightened the straps of his cuirass aggressively. It was obviously not an answer he wanted. 

“I’m trying, Revas. I don’t know what more you want from me,” she attempted to defend her decision, “My brother has complicated things in a way that takes time to unravel, and time is something we just don’t have right now. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“You could just drop the bullshit with him and actually do something to support the city you helped save,” he answered her sternly. 

“Oh, as if it is that easy. I can just say ‘ _enough_ ’, and Paeris will listen and we can all finally get to working together like all the children’s stories,” she shot back hotly. The lingering dream morning was nothing but broken glass now, shattered by the force of their resentment, “You always underestimate how much work and _effort_ this takes! But since the results aren’t immediate, since you can’t see the arrow hit the target right away, it’s just not worth Shem’assan’s time, is it?”

He scoffed at her, “And we’ve all seen how well your way is working out. Or did you forget who the shems want hanging from the city walls?”

Her jaw stiffened at the remark, her blood ran cold, and once again, she felt her chin quiver as her eyes threatened tears at his words. She wiped them away swiftly, careful not to disturb her son’s unusual calmness, “Of course I didn’t forget. It’s the only reason I asked you to stay.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” his answer was tense, agitated, though she couldn’t understand why, “It just means this is just another thing that’s all about you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the humans wanted to execute anyone else specifically. When they made the claim they wanted the _Maiden’s_ life, I didn’t think there was room for interpretation.”

He gave an exacerbated sigh at the remark, then plucked his knife from his belt, raising it to his scalp to trim the overgrown hair there, “There’s more at stake here than your life. The Free Army mentioned you by name, but they aren’t going to stop there. Elves don’t get take over cities without any consequences. They’ll get people living here to name names of any city elf that helped us, and if they let the clan leave, it’s only because they want to quietly wipe us out when we go back to the mountains. They can’t take any chances of other clans or other alienages coming together with us again. It’s why the Council are idiots if they think giving you up is going to save them. If we don’t win here, then that’s the end.”

“I know,” she affirmed quietly, “But even if that does happen, it’s still my neck in the noose. You can’t blame me for being afraid.”

Revas paused his work, and the fine, short pieces of hair that were shorn away floated in the air, like little dust motes. They glowed golden in the morning light too, but she felt too diminished to appreciate it now. 

“I don’t blame you,” he restarted his work, slowly trimming the hair growing around his ears, “But I can’t stay here to comfort you either, Elain. You’re asking more than I can give.”

“I’m asking my Banal’ras to obey the Maiden’s requests…”

“No, you’re asking me to drop the plans being made to defend this city so you don’t have to wallow in your self-pity alone,” he finished his meticulous shearing, wiping away the excess hair with his fingertips, then resheathing his knife in his belt, “And I’m getting sick of you trying to guilt me into doing what you want by bringing up my oaths.”

“So you remember you actually made oaths now,” she replied dryly. 

“Big talk coming from the person holding her baby after taking an oath of celibacy,” he shoved it back in her face. As if he sensed his parents speaking of him, Heliwr flexed his fingers, and his sharp little nails scratched her skin.

“ _Our_ baby. I didn’t do this alone,” Elain reminded him, though she could see this conversation wasn’t going anywhere. It was just another fight that would end in more resentment and no apologies, neither one of their pride allowing them to back down. 

“Whatever,” he blew her off, “I don’t have time to fight with you, and I’m not going to stay here with you when there’s work to be done.”

“Can you at least hold him while I get ready?” she gently pried Heliwr from her shoulder and held him out to his father. 

Revas reached out and scooped their son up into his arms, careful that his swaddling protected his sensitive skin from his hardened leather armor, “If you’re getting ready, then this whole argument was for nothing. You had plans all along.”

She climbed out of the bed and walked to the small wardrobe that held the few outfits she had managed to procure in the city, “I would have cancelled them if you had said yes.”

“More like dragged me along instead,” he implied she would waste his time, but she was too sour at his attitude to care.

Elain pulled out a simple linen dress and a twill bodice and set them over the back of a nearby chair. She let her nightshirt fall down her body, and when it pooled at her waist, she shimmied her hips and used her fingers to help it slip down. It dropped to the floor, and she gave it a light kick with the tip of her foot, moving it out of the way. When she turned to grab her clothes, Revas was staring at her, a red flush creeping up his neck. 

“Really,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically, “You’ve been nothing but critical of me since I woke up, and this is what changes your mood.” 

He cracked a grin and took a few steps towards her, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shrugged, but his mouth held his grin, and his eyes held their gaze on her form, “Not to me.”

She lifted her dress over her head, slipping herself inside of it, then felt his free arm wrap around her waist when the thick linen fell flush against her body. He kissed the back of her neck tenderly, lovingly, and though she wanted to get lost again in the beauty of that tenderness, in that dream Revas, his bitter words were not so easily forgotten. They tugged on her heart, turning the sweetness of the gesture to something rancid to her, like rotting fruit.

“I thought you had work to do? Or is my body just another task to be completed now?” she asked sharply as she pushed away from him, repulsed by the image her mind conjured. Grabbing her bodice, she quickly fitted it over her, but curses sat on her lips as her fingers fumbled over the leather lacing on her back; curses for her nerves, for her cowardice, for her annoyance, for her failings. Nothing seemed to shake that uneasiness settling inside her chest, and tears threatened to spill over her eyes in her frustration. That he would see her only as a means to one end pushed her to the brink. 

“Here, take him,” he instructed her to take Heliwr, passing him back into her arms, and after a whimper and a single, plaintive cry, he was settled against her chest, awake but thankfully calm. She couldn’t handle both of them crying again.

Gently, Revas directed her to face away from him by turning her shoulder, and with easy practice, tied up her bodice for her, “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too.”

“Then why are we doing this?” she started sadly, stroking the downy hair on her son’s head and letting the tears fall freely, “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“Because things are different now, I think,” he finished his work and locked his arms around her waist, leaning his face against her ear, “When everything was just our secret, when we were alone, it was just us figuring out how fast we could undress each other. It was easier. We just made it harder than it needed to be.”

“We did,” she agreed quietly, “But now things are difficult, and neither one of us wants to talk about what that means.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do we do?” 

“Wait it out? Try to find something we lost? Get over it and move on? I don’t really know,” he admitted to her, “All I know is I love you, and I don’t want to lose us but…”

“But it’s not enough,” she finished for him. The realization was nearly numbing, “Loving each other isn’t enough anymore.”

“No. Not while the Mantle is still the most important thing to you. Not while you still put it in front of everything.”

“And not while you resent me for not living up to the idealization you had in your mind.”

They stood in silence for a moment; she desperately trying to stop the tears that washed her face, and him desperately trying to let his resentment go for a moment. Neither one could be angry over each other in that tiny space. How could they be? That startling quality of numbness came from the truth of the situation, nothing else. Elain, for all she loved him and selfishly wanted everything from him, still clung to her Mantle like a piece of driftwood in an ocean, as if it would save her from being lost forever. And Revas placed expectations on her he knew she couldn’t meet, but nursed his anger, letting it burn low and hot when she inevitably failed to give him what he perceived as the correct way to do things.

The obstacles were too big to overcome with warm kisses and warmer bodies; that was only linen covering the wound festering underneath. No whispered words or nights of passion could erase what stood between them now. They had let it build up for too long, and Heliwr’s arrival only made matters more complicated. The love was there, would always be there, but they no longer _trusted_ one another. And that pained Elain more than anything else in the world could. 

“We need to talk about this. Really talk,” his breath touched her neck like a specter, crawling up her skin and making her shudder at all the memories that intruded her mind along with it.

“Then stay.”

“I can’t. And you won’t either,” he placed a kiss on her neck, then her jaw, then her cheekbone; far more tender than she deserved, “There’s still too much to be done, and you won’t drop your work even if I did.”

“I would’ve, if you had asked,” she answered him wistfully.

“And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? It’s always me who has to ask. To beg. And it’s always me getting denied so that you can stay on top,” he dropped his arms from around her waist and backed away from her; she was colder for it, “You can’t keep expecting that out of me. Not anymore. This isn’t going to work if you think of me as your drone, instead of your partner.”

“Revas, I don’t…” 

A knock on the door interrupted their struggles, “Elain? Are you ready?”

It was Nellia calling in a sign song voice, unaware of the brewing tension behind the doors, come to escort her around the palace as she tried to evade Paeris. Revas sighed at the interruption, then leaned over to kiss Heliwr on his plump little cheek. 

“I’ll be back tonight. Don’t wait up for me,” there was no goodbye kiss for her. He left her with nothing but an ultimatum and a numbness in her chest that was slowly turning to pain. She wished he would’ve stayed, but she also knew he was right: there was too much to be done. She would not have stopped the world to work on them. Instead, she would’ve taken him along with her, using him as a stabilizing presence, a comforting phantom, but nothing more. He was her Banal’ras, after all. It’s the path he had chosen. 

But that was only what she had told herself all these years so she didn’t have to face what she was doing. Elain realized it now, and was distraught at how little regret she felt. It had all been for a reason. She did not put him through that --did not put herself through all this-- so that she could fall apart when things did not work as planned. She had thought he understood; but, she had also known that his subservience had its limits. Push any beast too far, and he will snap at his shepherd's hand. 

_You sound like Vhannas_ , she thought to herself at the analogy, _you wanted to be better than this. Isn’t he worth it? Isn’t that what you told yourself?_

“Snap your head out of the clouds and get out here, girl.”

Old Bida stared at her from the otherside of the door leading out of her suite and into the hallway, her eyes as cold as the heart of winter and her tongue still as sharp as the ice formed there. Nellia stood behind her mobile chair, waiting patiently, smiling awkwardly at the old maiden's blunt words. 

Elain made her way out of the room and towards her waiting escort...or escorts, rather, "What are you doing here?"

"Hand me the infant," she commanded her harshly. 

She looked between Bida and Nellia, confused at this unlikely pair and her hahren's sudden desire to hold her child. In all the years she had known her, Bida was ambivalent about children, at best. Still, she was not ignorant. If the old maiden asked for something so unusual, she would have a good reason. 

Gently, she helped settle Heliwr in Bida's arms, his head resting comfortable in the heavy wool cloak draped over her arms and chest. He did not close his eyes, but rather, stuck his little fist in his mouth, staring at the woman who had lived for so long with the eyes of one who had no understanding yet of life beyond his mother's breast.

"He looks like the Banal'ras," she said tartly as she examined him with squinted eyes, "Maybe has your nose. Poor thing."

"There's nothing wrong with my--"

Bida snapped the fingers on her free hand to grab the attention of Nellia, and the hearthworker scrambled to push her chair down the hallway at the silent command. Elain kept pace to stay with them, still flummoxed at Bida's behavior.

"Speaking of the Banal'ras, we saw him leave your room," she commented, "He looked a little flushed, but he's been very disciplined lately in hiding his emotions. He's spending too much time with Warlord Threlen."

They traveled down the long hallway, passing by several hearthworkers like Nellia who were repairing clothing and food, and gossiping loudly as they did so. She did not like Bida speaking so candidly around them in case. These matters weren't for their ears.

"He's helping him prepare the hunters from both clans for the impending attack. It's perfectly reasonable he'd be spending a lot of time with him," Elain responded to her dully, "You're looking for shadows where there are none, Bida."

"Am I? Or are you so focused on the threat of facing your own death that you refuse to see that shadows creeping on you from behind?" she pointed towards a corridor that led to a small galleria where the Duke and his family had entertained small groups of dignitaries and nobles, "Down that way, girl."

Nellia adjusted her trajectory, and they turned down the corridor. It was full of displaced city elves, ones who were still left without homes after the blitz on the alienage, and they looked up at them as they passed with blank eyes. The ones native to the city knew better than to ask questions. Sal had taught her that questions only served as an excuse to strike those with rallying voices down. Another reason her work here was too important to leave in Paeris' hands, and exactly why Bida directed this little group down the disparate hall. The city elves would keep their heads down and ears closed. 

"You and your Keeper brother both have ignored Threlen and his capabilities, but anyone with two eyes can see that he is grooming the boy for something. He is not a man who wastes time and effort on people he has no plans for."

"Threlen? Have plans for Revas?" she scoffed at her mentor's inferring, "You must be bored here to come up with such stories."

"Bah!" Bida waved her free hand in the air in dismissal at her words, "The child must have eaten your mind from the womb if you don't believe it. Everyday he is training with him, doling out his orders, learning how to command from the field as he does...he's set his sights on the boy and you are so focused on Paeris that you've ignored a rising threat."

She smiled at her, "How is Revas working with Threlen a threat? If anything it benefits me. Having the Warlord of the Diceni allied with the Maiden is a direct challenge to Paeris and his authority."

"It doesn't benefit you if he plans on lifting Revas up as his Second, you foolish girl," Bida snapped at her harshly, "If that's the case, he means to abandon you here to secure his safety on the Steppes, along with your son, I would assume."

Elain shook her head fiercely, "Revas would never..."

"Think on your words wisely, da'len. I am not the only one who has seen the dissent between the two of you since my arrival, and word of mouth says it has been apparent since before the Duke's defeat. Everyone knows what is at stake, and part of the reason your head is in danger from being wrapped around a noose is because you've been too blind too see to these issues yourself. The boy is being turned. Take that for what it is."

"Arthwyn says Warlord Threlen defers to Revas more than his own son," Nellia spoke up timidly, still pushing her charge slowly, careful not to run the wheels of the chair over the textiles and bric a brac strewn across the floors, "He also says the Diceni hunters listen to his orders. And the Thieves' Guild too. They all think he's a hero for what happened at the Nacre Palace."

Bida's mouth formed a tight, approving smirk, "See? Even your hunters speak of it amongst themselves and you are left in the dark."

"What has Arthwyn said about me?" Elain ignored Bida's gloating, "What are the hunters' thoughts on their Maiden?"

Nellia slowed her pushing to a stop, and looked at the floor, her cheeks flushing a bright red, "Oh, nothing really worth knowing. Nothing important."

"Tell her," Bida ordered her, "She needs to know."

She furrowed her brow deeply and a frown settled over her face, "Are you sure?"

Bida nodded her approval, and urged her to continue with a wave of her wizened hand. Nellia sighed and started her pushing again, looking straight ahead and avoiding Elain's gaze.

"They say you led valiantly, but that you did it for glory. Now that the glory has been won, you want to sit on your laurels and make the humans happy," she cleared her voice, then lowered it substantially, "They are going to Revas for help. They feel like he's the one that really serves Andruil."

"Ridiculous!" she nearly yelled, "The Mantle still sits on my shoulders! I am still oathed to the Mother of Hares! All my actions here have been sanctioned by the Inquisitor herself! Revas serves me, and I serve the Will of the Goddess!"

"Lower your voice girl," Bida said dully, "You're impressing no one. It's clear that the Banal'ras is defecting and you are left with your artifact of station, but no real power to back it up anymore. Your ego doesn't change that."

“I am not powerless!” she spat at the old maiden, her anger and frustration building to a sharp crest. Revas’ distance was beginning to become clear, and that pain in her chest flared brightly, “I have made enough connections and worked hard enough to see some fruits of my labor. I am not friendless in this city.”

Bida tilted her chin upwards and gestured down the hall and back again, “And where are these friends? Is it the Guild Master who despises you and your leadership? Is it the shemlen merchants who will toss you to their dogs once the next sniff of coin comes in the air? Or is it Sal, who is negotiating his security with Keeper Paeris as we speak? Face it, girl. All your friends have moved into safer waters. You’re standing here, alone, with a bitter old women who no one cares about anymore and a hearthworker whose opinion matters as much as a drop of milk in a bucket.”

“Hey!” Nellia protested, but Bida pressed on.

“You were too worried about pushing your name above all others that you’ve forgotten to cultivate your role as Maiden. And what does a Maiden do?” she paused for effect, but did not expect Elain to answer her, “A Maiden leads her hunters. A Maiden acts on behalf of those who cannot. A Maiden rallies the Dalish when outside forces threaten to undo us. You have not been the first Maiden to sacrifice for her people, but you are shaping up to be the first who will martyred without a fight.”

“I am fighting!” she argued through gritted teeth, the barbs of Bida’s words making her temper flare out of control. She refused to be diminished, “I am fighting for everything I have!”

“Then why are you _here_ and not out _there_?”

Old Bida pointed out of a tall window in the hall that faced the foothills of the Vimmarks, where even now hunters and city elves alike trained for the oncoming battle. 

“ _That_ is where you belong. Somewhere along the way you forgot that Andruil is Blood and Force, and let yourself be perfectly content to sit and watch the work be done instead of doing it yourself. You are not just an oathbreaker; you are a _disgrace_ if you keep allowing this.”

Elain clenched her teeth forcefully, until they nearly hurt, in a desperate attempt to hold back the tears of anger and shame that clouded her vision. Bida was right, Revas was right, everyone was right, but it was so hard to let go. So hard to throw all her work to the wind and engage directly. Every plot, every piece, every move she had made since she learned of her pregnancy had been to protect herself and her station.

And it had all failed. She could not defeat her brother, could not talk her way into the human’s protection, couldn’t even convince her own people that her life was worth saving. Everything she had done had blown up in her face. They were all right, and she was desperate in her anger at herself to rectify this.

“How do fix it?” she asked her mentor. 

It wasn’t one of her usual exercises in tradition or trying to make the old maiden feel included. Before she ascended, she looked to Bida for every answer, every piece of wisdom she could provide. She had looked up to her, idolized her. That she felt she was ever above Bida’s scrutiny --and her advice-- was a sign that there was truth to her mentor’s assessments: Elain’s own ego had been her downfall. 

But for all her bitterness, Bida was not cruel. She looked at her through the corners of her eyes, and despite their cloudiness from her age, there was no doubt that there was a sharp mind behind them.

“Show the these elves and humans that your Blood is precious, and you will not give it up easily. Then, show your enemies that _Force_ is the language of our Goddess.”

Elain nodded her head in understanding, knowing what she had to do. If she wanted to keep her title, and her life, she had to be the Maiden that Old Bida had trained her to be. She straightened her shoulders and her spine, and a new source of determination pumped through her blood. 

“Go. Do what you must. We’ll take care of your son,” Bida assured her, “You’re no good to him dead, after all.”

She didn’t hesitate to leave him in their hands. There was a pang of hurt when she did, though only briefly. She had lingered in her failures long enough, and she refused to let that be the end of her. Her footsteps stomped loudly down the long corridor that led back into the main hall of the Nacre Palace, and they eyes that had been cast downwards before now looked up in curiosity. 

_Good_ , she thought to herself. _Let them see_. _Let them see that I refuse to be led to my death like a docile animal._

She passed through the main gates to the palace brazenly, not caring who saw her leave her self-imposed prison, and shielded her eyes from the glaring afternoon sun.

\----

“You were right to come to me,” Old Bida said as they both watched Elain glide away with a new purpose burning in her, “She was getting lost in her own self-pity and fear. The Maiden needed perspective.”

Nellia turned the wheeled chair around, and began to push her back to the suites of the palace. There was no use in staying in this dusty corridor now that they accomplished what they needed to.

“Do you think it will help?” she asked the old maiden. Nellia had been afraid to approach her at first. Bida was like an old statue in the clan: always so still, so imposing, but always watching as well. Nothing got past her vision. It was intimidating, even a little frightening, sort of like Elain herself. But Elain wasn’t all stone once she got to know her. There was a vulnerability there that Nellia could see, and she was so sad watching her struggle with it. Old Bida was the only person she could turn to to help her. 

She really hoped it would work.

“It will. The girl never did like to lose. Her brother’s maneuvering has thrown her mind in darkness, but she will prevail.”

“How do you know?” Nellia questioned. It’s not that she didn’t believe Bida, she just wanted to make sure. She was afraid for her friend.

“Do you know how long I’ve been a Maiden? I ascended when your father was still the size of this infant in my arms,” she raised her forearm slightly to elevate the now napping Heliwr to make her point, “For fifty years I served the Goddess and the Dalish faithfully. And for fifty years, I saw many promising young huntresses rise to earn the title I had held for so long. They all failed. Some couldn’t take the pressure of the competition. Some were not clever enough to pass their trials. And some went on their last trial, never to be seen again. I sang the rites for many who reached for the Mantle and fell short.”

“But Elain didn’t.”

Old Bida inhaled a deep breath, her frail chest rising under her many heavy cloaks, then exhaled just as deeply, “She did not. I knew from the moment she declared herself the next Maiden on the training grounds, while her hair was still unsheared and her bow only made of birch, that she was right. Skill doesn’t make a Maiden. Neither does cleverness, nor ability. What makes a Maiden is conviction in the title and what it means. Elain has never doubted its power and has never shied away from it. She may have faltered, but with her, all she needs is to be reminded of what that Mantle means. Everything else will fall into place.”

Nellia opted not to argue with her, and decided to just trust that she was right. Elain was convicted, there was no denying it. If the old maiden thinks it was enough, then she would do what she could to help her unlikely friend. 

They crossed the threshold of the galleria’s corridor and back into the hallways of the palace suites. Nellia went to turn towards the main hall, but Bida raised her hand to stop her.

“Take a left. I need to visit my old partner, Warlord Den.”

“For what?” she asked her absently.

“You really are earless, aren’t you?” Bida said to her almost jovially; or, as jovial as the old maiden could be, “We can’t just leave everything on her shoulders. It’s time to use our invisibility to our advantage, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Nellia turned her chair and headed towards the room that Warlord Den had sequestered himself in, “I’m not used to all this plotting and stuff.”

“Leave it to me, da’len. I will do the plotting for the both of us,” she assured her. Nellia gave a little giggle when she realized Bida looked more lively than she’d seen her in months.

“You really like this, don’t you?” she teased her. The Old Maiden looked up and behind her, a wide grin settling in the deep grooves of her face.

“Of course. I’m not dead yet, girl.”

 

 


	50. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een arrives in Kirkwall and finds she has unexpected friends waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 50TH CHAPTER TO ME

The Eluvian network was a true wonder of Sar’een’s people. 

At one time, she could imagine the elegant pathways filled with the commerce and transportation of an Empire. Bustling markets, hallowed sanctuaries, vast libraries, coliseums to entertain sprawling crowds, even luxurious bathhouses and pleasure palaces...the remains of a decadence and ingenuity were littered all over these Crossroads, like scattered puzzle pieces just waiting to be picked up and examined. It seemed as the crumbling decay of the Empire had long since been frozen in these in between places, forever preserved, and yet, forever a relic of once was. 

It was a strange juxtaposition; this fluttering life of magic that seemed to nearly breathe if one would stand still for long enough, trapped forever amongst the dead things. There was a sense of sadness that came with it, and a sense of dread. Sar’een felt with each step she took invigorated and renewed, but also as if she was intruding on things that were not meant to be intruded upon. And it wasn’t just her who sensed it. Sera’s teeth chattered in her discomfort with the way magic touched her here, and her other companions felt the opposite: drained of all their energy, as if they were walking through a miasmic fugue. 

Still, it had made quick work of their travel. Briala charted their way forward, crossing through glowing mirror after glowing mirror, bringing them across the world in a matter of footsteps. In what would take weeks normally, Sar’een and her team were able to traverse in a matter of days. The most difficult task was simply navigating the complex network.

“This last mirror will lead you to your destination, Inquisitor,” Briala guided her down a path paved in glass-like quartz and pointed ahead to a glowing object in the distance, “Go through, and you shall be exactly where you need to be in Kirkwall. You will find friends, as well as my agent, on the other side.”

Sera groaned loudly, “Friggin’ finally!”

Her friend stomped past them loudly, heading towards the exit from the Crossroads, mumbling _“figgin’ magic elf shite”_ to herself for the duration. Sar’een lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle. She didn’t want to make light of her friend’s fear, especially in front of the Ambassador, but Sera always made it so hard.

“Will your friend be alright?” Briala asked her, a twinge of concern making the corners of her mouth turn downwards slightly. Sometimes she wondered how much of Briala’s facial expressions were a practiced art. Did she express anything genuinely? She often wondered the same of Leliana as well. Bard training fascinated and frightened her all at once, and she knew no matter how hard she tried, she’d never be able to do what they’re capable of doing. 

“Yeah. She just gets…nervous around all this magic,” Sar’een explained to her as diplomatically as possible, “I would think a lot of city elves would, right?”

Briala nodded, “Yes, somewhat. We are not used to magic being a part of our lives like you Dalish are. And many of us do follow the Chant: _magic exists to serve man_. City elves has seen enough servitude, why would we invite more through magic?”

“True enough,” it made perfect sense, but it was still strange how different her people were from Briala’s, despite their shared history, “You won’t be going with us to Wycome, I assume?”

“Non. I have already stayed away from the throne in Val Royeaux for too long. Gaspard must be watched carefully, and I must be there to oversee it. For my people’s sake as well as the Inquisition’s.”

“Understood. Can I trust your agent in Kirkwall to help?” her non-elf companions were finally catching up to them, their mumbles as well as non-verbal discomfort apparent. Briala looked over her shoulder to them, assessing whether or not they should hear her conversation, then turned her head back to face Sar’een when she deemed it safe.

“Very much so,” she answered with a knowing smile, then gave a little bow to take her leave, “She should be of great assistance. Best of luck Inquisitor. Our kin are counting on you.”

The Ambassador gave a graceful turn and departed back the way they had come, slipping far more quickly down the path once she was unhindered by the Inquisition’s entourage. Sar’een knew she had made the right choice in working with Briala; she was efficient, sharp, and quick, like an assassin’s knife in the dark. Without her and her Eluvian network, the carefully placed chessboard Sar’een had erected would’ve become dangerously tenuous. Now, it was only a matter of making her final moves to declare _check_.

“Are you pissbags coming or not!? I’m getting the bee buzzes without any of the friggin’ bees!” Sera yelled from the end of the path, only her trembling silhouette to be seen against the bright light of the mirror. 

“Don’t know what she’s complaining about. I can barely move my legs,” Varric complained as they progressed to their destination, “First person who makes a dwarf joke gets a kiss from Bianca.”

“Awe, need me to carry you?” Bull laughed at him, but even his pace was slowed. Vivienne, Leliana, Cullen...all of them were dragging behind, their bodies having to work harder to move through this magical air. 

“The Crossroads were not meant for your people, Varric,” Solas mused thoughtfully as he slowed his own pace to walk astride their companions, “This place was built in a time where magic was intrinsic to the lives of elves. Everything was imbued with it and our people were masters of shaping it. To see this place when it was full of life of an empire...it must have been breathtaking.”

“Yeah, but that was then, this is now,” Varric answered, “And in the now, I feel like a golem. Can barely lift these stone nubs.”

When they at last reached their destination, Sar’een was first to step through. The surge of energy, the feeling of displacement, and the blindingly bright light as she passed through the mirror’s magic had become familiar over the last few days, but the emptiness she felt when she crossed over to the other side still left her in a small state of vertigo, dizzy from the sudden absence of magic. She leaned on a nearby wall and took a deep breath, centering herself and getting her body used to the waking world once again. Sera crossed through after her, followed by Bull, then more, and as they did, Sar’een took the time to take in their surroundings. 

They were in some kind of hovel; small, but well-kept and clean. The floor was free of any excess dirt and debris, and there was a neatly organized bookshelf pressed against the far wall flanked by a tiny stool. But a steady drip of a water falling from a leaking roof gave away the status of the cramped little room, and the straw mats that covered the floor instead of the lush rugs Sar’een had become accustomed to only affirmed it. 

"Ugh. We're in an alienage, right?" Sera sniffed the air behind her, "Smells like an alienage."

"Does anyone have a bucket?" Varric asked as he walked through behind Sera and Iron Bull, "Think I'm going to spill my lunch."

"I don't see anyone here? Wasn't someone supposed to meet us?" Vivienne questioned as she examined the small room that was now becoming overly cramped. She folded her arms across each other disapprovingly, "You'd think the Ambassador would ensure a tighter transition than leaving us in a damp room."

"I'm sure someone--" Sar'een started, but she was interrupted by a soft clicking of a door opening next to the bookcase. 

It opened slowly, and instead of someone walking in to greet them, a face peeked around the corner of the frame, inspecting their arrival. The room was intensely bright from the light emanating from the Eluvian, but Sa'reen recognized the unmistakable markings of vallaslin on the host's face. An elf. A Dalish elf. One of her own. 

At the sight of the guests, the elf's eyes seemed to widen, and the door leading out of room flew open all the way, letting a dim hearth light intermix with the stark whiteness of the light from the mirror. 

"Varric! I can't believe it's you!"

Their host ran to the hunched over elf in a flurry of green robes and dark hair, kneeling down next to him and placing a placating hand on his back.

"Daisy?" Varric looked up slightly from his misery, seeing their hosts face, then let out a chuckle, "I should've known it'd be you. Who else in Kirkwall knows anything about Eluvians?”

It was Merrill. Sar'een's heart shrank at the realization, both from a homesickness that opened like an old wound and from a dark fear. She was a Dalish, like her, but even more importantly, a Dalish she knew. All the Firsts in the clans trained together during the Arlathvhens, and she had travelled to Clan Sabrae with Keeper Deshanna and Hearthmatron Aricia upon their arrival in the Free Marches. She knew Merril, had spoken with her, worked with her, felt sad when she had heard she had left her clan, and felt scared when Sabrae requested Sar'een's transfer to replace her.

The clan life was smaller than this shemlen world, where everyone knew one another and you could never escape that, but in the moment, it was almost a relief. She missed her own kin so much. Merrill was a lifeline to them, despite her estrangement. 

But things had changed since they last spoke face to face. Merrill had lived among the city elves for over a decade, and Sar'een had risen into an unprecedented position. A position that forced her to make a difficult decision. One that had left the Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke, to die in the Fade. The very same Hawke that Sar'een knew was the lover of Merrill, and her longtime partner. Her hand had decided his fate, and she did not know how her kin would feel about that. 

Her sunken heart seemed to drop even further into her stomach when Merrill took her gaze off Varric, turned to Sar'een. She stood from the ground and approached her, her eyes never dropping. She had aged since she last saw her, but her eyes were still alight with curiosity and her fists still clenched and unclenched at her waist in a nervous tick.

"Lethallan. It's so good to see you again."

Sar'een smiled warmly, so relieved just to hear the title from one of the People that her eyes watered, "Lethallan. It's been too long."

Merrill returned her smile, and in a surprising turn, swiftly fell forward and drew her into a hug. Sar'een wrapped her arms around her tightly, afraid if she let go, her entire culture, her entire life, would disappear in a wisp of smoke. The water in her eyes turned to glistening tears, and they wet her cheeks as she found comfort in something that felt so much like home.

When they at last drew away, Merrill wiped her own tears from her eyes, but her smile didn't leave, "I'm so happy you're safe. When I heard about the Breach, and that it was you, I...well, it was bit of a shock."

Sar'een squeezed her marked hand into a fist and held it awkwardly at her side, "Yeah. But I'm here. I'm okay."

"You are," Merrill beamed brightly, then reached for her unmarked hand, "Alright. You didn't come all the way here to listen to me blubber! And I'm sure your friends want to get out of this horrid room. Oh, I am so sorry about the mess! It's so difficult to keep up with this place..."

"It's fine," Sar'een assured her, but Merrill was already pulling her out of the the little study they arrive in and into the great room connecting to it. 

The light here was not as bright. Instead, it was a crackling hearth against a wall that warmed the entire room and left everything in a soft orange glow. The walls of this room were decorated with simple textiles, Dalish in origin, and little else. A cooking spit stood over the fire of the hearth, and in the middle of the room, a decently sized cedar table covered in maps. Once again, it was sparse, but unlike the little study, this room was larger and somehow more welcoming. 

The tall, red-headed woman leaning over the table in the middle of the room with a dark scowl on her face was not quite as accommodating. 

"Alright, you're finally here. Time to get to work," the woman said bluntly, straightening herself and staring her down. She wore heavy armor emblazoned with Kirkwall's crest. She was probably part of the city guard. She was...

It hit Sar'een immediately who she was, and she felt the shrinking inside her again. _Aveline_. Guard Captain of Kirkwall. Another one of Hawke's friends. Another one to judge her on her failure to save him. She squeezed Merrill's hand, looking for some comfort there. 

"Guard Captain Aveline, I presume?" she said nearly shakily, but the presence of her own friends seemed to steel her a bit. Aveline nodded.

"Just a regular family reunion," Varric mumbled as he and the rest of their group walked into the great room, "Next thing you'll tell me is Isabela is waiting for me at the Hanged Man."

"Varric," Aveline greeted him stoically, "Welcome back to Kirkwall. You missed a fight."

Varric scratched the back of his head, "Yeah, heard about that. Choir boy got a little too big for his vestments."

"I told him he was wasting his time and starting a fight he couldn't finish. Kirkwall won't be occupied," she stated, then turned and addressed Sar'een, "But your help drove him back to Starkhaven to lick his wounds. He's not a problem anymore."

Commander Cullen slid past their companions to stand at the table with Aveline, his head down and focused on the maps she had laid out, "So the Prince of Starkhaven isn't marching with the Free Army?"

"No. Other Marcher cities came to Starkhaven to insist that he act and provide guards for the Free Army, but he declined. There's unrest at home from his failure here. Going to battle again so soon would've ended his rulership there abruptly."

"So who's leading this march?" Sar'een asked her. She turned her attention to the maps as well, focusing on tributaries of the Minanter outside the city of Wycome. Crossing them would be difficult for the Free Army and the Inquisition forces alike. Hopefully, it would slow them down enough so her family could hold the city until they arrived.

"The Margrave of Ansburg, Killian. He's just recently come to power and has something to prove. The Lady Chancellor of Tantervale is also a good friend of the late Duke of Wycome's wife. She's vowed to get justice at any cost."

"And the Teryns of Ostwick?" Leliana slipped silently to the table and pointed to the walled city on the map.

Aveline folded her arms over her chest, "They sent token forces from their city guard, but nothing else. They won't take the field with the other nobles from Ansburg and Tantervale, thank the Maker. They're all Chantry trained and might actually give you a good fight. Margrave Killian is a welp."

"And what about Kirkwall? Did the de facto Viscount promise forces to the Free Army?" Cullen stroked his chin lightly in thought as plans of attack formed in his mind. Sar'een recognized him forming battle formations like this from their time at the wartable in Skyhold.

"Uh, Curly...don't think our illustrious Guard Captain would give up her guardsman without a fight," Varric cut in, "A big fight."

"Huge," Merrill added. Sar'een gave a soft snicker. 

"I don't put my guardsmen in harm's way for no reason," Aveline replied, "And I'm not going to bow to some wet-haired lordling who thinks his blood gives him some divine right to order my men around. I told him if he wanted to take them, he'd have to come through me."

"And I'm guessing he didn't try to go through you?" Cullen asked with a small smirk.

Aveline returned the smirk, "No, he did not."

"Still, Tantervale and Ansburg do have substantial forces. And Ostwick's forces are well trained. How many are marching?" Leliana drew their attention back to the matters at hand, and the brief levity from the Guard Captain disappeared.

"Agents in all our networks are saying two thousand strong. It's nothing to laugh at," Aveline explained, then pointed to the Minanter curving down the map, "They're slowed down because of the heavy rains making the river rise, but they're still a powerful threat. I doubt Wycome's city guard is still established enough to handle this."

"And the city elves were slaughtered by the dozens," Merrill spoke up, "Wycome will be depending on the Dalish and whatever elves are left to fight. Not nearly enough to handle an army of two thousand."

"How many of our troops are still here after pushing the Prince of Starkhaven out?" Sar'een questioned.

"About two hundred," Cullen answered dutifully, "How many guards can you spare, Guard Captain?"

"I'm not sending my guardsmen on a suicide mission. The city is vulnerable and we're still recovering from the mage rebellion. Fighting an unwinnable battle against the Free Army is not the hill I’ll let them die on."

“Unwinnable? Hardly,” Leliana said, “Difficult, perhaps, but not unwinnable. There is more than one way to turn the tide of a battle.”

“She’s right, Aveline,” Merrill agreed, “Plus we have our _surprise forces_ to help. Even you said they’d be nothing to shake a finger at. Though, I’m not quite sure why you would shake any fingers…”

“Just an expression, Daisy. What kind of surprise forces are you talking about?” Varric questioned. 

“Friends in low places,” she smiled, “Humans aren’t the only ones who’ve heard news out of Wycome.”

“How many _surprise forces_ are we looking at?” Sar’een pressed her, curious as to who --and what-- these forces were.

“A thousand strong!” Merrill beamed, proud of her answer, “And all ready to fight for the Inquisition.”

“Hmm,” Cullen chewed on the metrics of the potential battle, “A thousand strong, plus our two hundred forces...that’s twelve hundred against two thousand. Still not the best odds…”

“Don’t forget the elves in Wycome,” Leliana interjected, “They led a successful coup against the Duke and his mercenaries. They’re obviously quite capable.”

“And they have held the city for this long. That will go further towards a victory than trying to outnumber the Free Army,” he agreed with her assessment, “How soon can your, uh... _surprise forces_ be ready to march?”

Everyone in the room turned their eyes upon Merrill, waiting patiently for her answer.

“Oh! That’s for me!” she exclaimed lightly, “Well, I’m sure they’re ready now, but maybe the Inquisitor would like to meet them? It might help her decide how to approach Wycome?”

“Good idea, lethallan. Can you take me to their commanders?” Sar’een agreed, and Merrill nodded vigorously, At the confirmation, she turned to her advisors, “Stay here and coordinate with Guard Captain Aveline. Send Bull and Vivienne to inspect our troops still stationed here. No matter what, I’ll have to give marching orders before nightfall. Time is of the essence.”

“Understood, Inquisitor,” Vivienne answered, and the rest murmured their own agreements. Satisfied that her orders would be met, she gestured for Merrill to lead her out. 

“Come with me, Varric. This is your city, after all,” Sar’een called over her shoulder as they walked to the rusted metal doorway leading to the outside of ...wherever they were. 

“Yeah, sure. Home sweet home.”

\---

Sera had been right: it was an alienage.

Kirkwall’s alienage, to be specific. The rusted door led to an inconspicuous alleyway, attached to more alleyways, and more winding that seemed nearly labyrinthian in their endlessness. The rotted wood of the hovels that lined the alley all dripped wet like the safe house they left, and rats scurried in between the crumbling structures. It was like the worst stories she had heard of city elf life come true. 

Sar’een wasn’t used to these kinds of conditions. Even when she was living with her clan, there was an expected cleanliness. Filth brought disease, and every life was precious. The entire clan worked towards a healthier standard, to protect their children, their elderly, and everyone in between. The elves here didn’t have that option. Kirkwall was built on a hill, like most of the Free Marcher cities, and the filth and corruption from higher, more noble districts spilled down to the forgotten and downtrodden. For however hard these alienages worked to keep their little communities safe, there was always some outside force acting on them to snatch that safety away. 

“We moved the Eluvian recently to a new safehouse, so we’ll have to go closer to the water. Sorry,” Merrill explained as they made their way through the winding passages, “Ambassador Briala doesn’t like us to keep it in one place for too long. She thinks it will only take one good bribe to bring the whole network down.”

“She’s smart, I’ll give her that,” Varric complimented her, “How’d you even end up as one her agents? You don’t seem the spy-type, Daisy.”

“Oh, I’m no spy. One of Thieve’s Guild members from the Hercinia chapter reached out to me after the Ambassador got control of the network. Something about reading in a book that I had some knowledge of the magic. If only I could recall the name of the novel…”

“Pfft,” Varric snorted, and Merrill smiled at him. 

“I thought at first that after the chaos of the war, the Guild was trying to get a foothold here again. Did you know Kirkwall is the only major city in the Free Marches without a Guildmaster? I’ve seen so many thieves here, it’s hard to believe!”

“Shocking,” he responded sarcastically. 

“But that wasn’t the case. The Guilds are working with a rebel network in Orlais, and they need help with Eluvians. And...well, it all sounded so exciting! How could I say no?”

“Annunciate with your tongue? Just press it against the roof of your mouth: _nooo_ ,” Sar’een gave Varric a gentle shove, and he raised his hands in defeat, “Okay, okay. Shutting up.”

“You never give me enough credit, Varric! I’ve been working very hard since you’ve been gone. No one else was trying to help the elves here. If keeping the network open in Kirkwall in exchange for extra hands and healing supplies was a bad idea, well then...then I guess I’m just full of bad ideas.”

“No one’s blaming you for helping the elves, Daisy, but this sounds like the time you brought the Coterie assassin to your house for tea,” Varric complained.

“He was thirsty and looked tired! It seemed rude to just leave him squatting on the docks…”

Varric shook his head and let out a deep sigh, “I just hope you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I’m _fine_ , Varric.”

“Sure you are, but I don’t want you to end up like Haw--” he stopped himself, looked to Sar’een, then back to the street in front of them, “You Dalish kids just seem to step in all the shit everyone leaves on the ground.”

“Luckily, we seem pretty good at cleaning it up though,” she gave her friend a smile, a small placation she hoped would help. 

“And it’s hard to clean too! It gets between your toes when you don’t wear shoes,” Merrill added, drawing an almost awkward laugh out of all three of them. 

It was all little hollow though, and they all knew it. There was something hanging over them that was much heavier than they seemed to want to face, but it might be for the best. Wycome would take all her attention now. It had been a plan weeks in the making, and for as painful as the phantom of Hawke was to Merrill and Varric --and Sar'een herself--, there was no time to unwrap that pain. There was work to be done...a city to be saved.

"There," Merrill pointed to the arcing tree branches over the tops of the dilapidated buildings, "Near the Vhenadahl. That's where the leaders are waiting."

They rounded one last corner in these dark alleys, and came into the overcast daylight of the center of the alienage. There were small market stalls bordering the entryway that led down to Kirkwall's docks, but they were empty, and an otherworldly silence had settled over the center of the community. When they came into full view of the courtyard, Sar'een saw why.

Under the great Vhenadahl stood a veritable milita. Elves crowded and silent, waiting patiently as they leaned against the ancient trunk of the tree. Some examined weapons in their hands, while others merely looked towards the sky. The majority seemed to perk up and straighten themselves when they saw her approach. 

"Here we go," Merrill said brightly, "Inquisitor Lavellan...I'd like you to meet your _surprise forces_."

These were no ordinary city elves. Not just servants and tailors and bakers and paupers...they were lean and scarred and armed to the teeth with weapons from all over the world: dwarven steel enchanted withRivaini runes, Qunari war axes, iron daggers strapped next to vials of Antivan poisons, and even Dalish bows. It was an amalgamation of soldiers who never served in a real army, but fought in the war of survival everyday of their lives. 

"Hmmph. Was expecting someone bigger."

The words came from a middle-aged elven woman leaning casually against the front Vhenadahl, picking the calloused skin of her palm with a throwing knife while the graying crown of curls on her head settled over her face, obstructing her eyes. Sar'een rubbed her arms self-consciously, but remembered all the advice Vivienne gave her about appearances, and dropped them back to her sides.

"Bigger doesn't always mean better," she replied calmly, "And I seem to do alright for myself. You are?"

"Kids around here call me the Grandmaster of the Thieves' Guild," the woman answered slowly, pushing off the tree and striding up to Sar'een as if they were old friends. The curls fell from her face, and underneath, dark eyes that betrayed an innate shrewdness revealed themselves, "But you can call me Clover."

"It's a pleasure, Grandmaster Clover," she inclined her head slightly as a sign of respect, "Merrill tells us your people want to help the operation in Wycome."

Clover turned her head and spit on the ground, "You're damn right we do. My kids are trapped in that shithole, and no one's doin' a thing about it but the Dalish. These shems gotta be taught a lesson. No one fucks with my people."

"Your people? The Wycome Thieves' Guild?"

"And every fuckin' elf put to the knife for that mad Duke," she answered gruffly, "We got people on the ground and we've heard the stories. Red lyrium bein' fed to guards, people coming and snatching elves in the night, then growing even more of that damn lyrium right inside them...it's a Maker-damned travesty. My kids stood their ground though, and I ain't goin' to leave 'em high and dry in there for the Free Army to take that away. This ends now."

Murmurs of agreement rose from the ranks of the other Guildmembers that had gathered under the Vhenadahl. Although Merrill had indicated a thousand of them, there only seemed to be a few hundred here though. Sar'een appreciated the Grandmaster's dedication to the cause, but she couldn't protect the city with a few hundred people.

"Is this everyone in the Thieves' Guild?" she asked her, trying to gauge what they were really bringing to the table. Clover arched her eyebrow and smirked. 

"You really don't know anything about us, do you?"

Sar'een shook her head slowly, "I'm sorry to say I don't. I haven't lived in any alienages, or even in any big cities. Up until a little over year ago, I had been traveling with my clan all my life." 

"Hear that kids? She's never lived in a city," Clover called over her shoulder, and the gathered elves responded with soft chuckles and shaking heads, but quickly grew silent again. 

She turned her throwing knife in her hand, still smiling, then tucked it away in her belt before walking directly next to Sar'een. She casually threw her arm over her shoulder and gave her a wink, "Well, let me tell you about then. Give you a little education in misery."

"See all these kids here?" she continued on, "These are guildmembers from the Cumberland chapter. Biggest Guild in the north, and where I'm based out of. Every Guild from here to Llomerynn has a Guildmaster, and every single one of them answers to us; specifically, answers to _me._ I run these kids. I make sure smuggling is flowing free and easy, that guildmembers got clothes on their backs and weapons on their waists. Food, armor, potions, poisons...I make sure it's there for all my kids to use so they can do their Maker-damned jobs. And you know why that is?"

"To...to make money?" Sar'een answered with a question. She wasn't used to dealing someone like this Grandmaster and didn’t want to offend her.

"See? You're ears aint' as wet as they look," Clover shook her shoulder roughly and grinned widely, "Everything runs on coin. If you have coin, you got a voice in this world. Humans been tryin' to keep it outta elf hands since before the Dales fell. If we're workin' for ourselves, that mean we can't work for them, right?"

Sar'een nodded her understanding.

"So what's an elf to do when humans ain't lettin' em have any of that coin?"

"You take it," her answer this time was more grounded. Despite Clover's almost intimidating demeanor, she could easily see where the conversation was taking her. She'd let the Grandmaster lead her though. If she did anything else, her surprise forces might think lesser of her for it, and she needed them ready to work with her.

"Smart girl," Clover said her approval quietly, her voice low, "We take it. We take it from merchants and nobles and officials and anyone who thinks we're less than the dirt they step on. And we get good coin too. Enough to outfit new kids, enough to keep them fed, and most importantly...enough to feed and outfit elves not in the Guild. We're the _only_ damn organization around takin' care of our people, because you know damn well the humans sure ain't gonna do it."

"So you're probably thinkin' to yourself, ' _What does that have to do with these kids here, Clover?'_. Well, I'll tell ya," she went on, "This is the Cumberland chapter, like I said. But ears on the ground sent word to every active guild north of the Waking Sea. And your new Ambassador friend has agents in every guild. They say that the Inquisitor has herself a nice little coup goin' in Wycome, and that gets my interest, see? But then we find out the Inquisitor puts a puppet Emperor on the throne of Orlais, and is pullin' more strings than the Ambassador expected. Suddenly, you got my _attention_. I send a few of my kids to talk to agents, agents talk to other people, and before you know it, we hear word that the Duke is dead and some Dalish Maiden is takin' credit. That's strange enough for me, but then it gets stranger. Turns out, Wycome chapter is backin' the clan led by the Maiden, and instead of gettin' out through the Catacombs like I ordered once I heard Duke Antoine got hung, they're stayin' to fight the Free Army. And you know what that means."

"That you have to go protect them?"

Clover let out a loud laugh, one that resonated in her chest and made Sar'een's ears ring.

"It means I gotta go in and drag that lil shit Yemet out by his ears and knock some Maker-damned sense into him!" she explained, still barely able to contain her laughter, "But it also means this is a big fuckin' deal. Guild doesn't involve itself in politics for a reason, but I do get democratic on occasion. So I take a vote with the other Guildmasters, see what they want, and...I don't know, Inquisitor. Somethin' must be in the air 'cos _every last one of 'em_ voted to go in and stand with Wycome chapter and that Maiden. Can you believe it?"

"I--" she was cut off. Clover wasn't looking for answers from her anymore.

"Could barely believe it myself, but here we are. Things seem to be changin' in the Free Marches, and the Thieves' Guild ain't gonna sit it out. And we sure as shit aint' going to leave our own by themselves. The Guild always fights."

Merrill clapped her hands excitedly, "Oh, isn't it all so fun! Just like a story come to life."

"So where are the rest of the Guild chapters?" Sar'een asked Clover, and the Grandmaster finally released her shoulder from her muscled embrace.

"Ran through the mirror network. We're all set to meet in a safe spot outside a hidden cave system in the Vimmarks' foothills. 'Bout a half day out from Wycome. Good enough for you?"

"And they can fight?"

Another loud laugh, then Clover turned to the gathered crowd once more and shouted, " _Can you fight, kids?_ "

The eerie silence from them was finally broken, and a great shout lifted from their grizzled mouths. Hands flew up in the air holding daggers, longswords hit metal shields, and feet stomped on the ground. They were obviously eager for a fight, and she was sure the Free Army was going to give it to them. Sar'een just hoped they could follow orders.

"So...you satisfied, Lady Inquisitor?"

Clover stared back at her, the smile and levity gone from her face, and a look of stone determination left in its place. Sar'een realized that no matter how the Grandmaster laid it out, this was important to her. What had been done in Wycome a was a direct hit to her people, and in her position, Sar'een knew she'd want to fight for their sake as well. 

It was an easy choice, for once. There were no morals that had be shunned, no sacrifices that had to be made, no doubts, no regrets, no thoughts of becoming everything she hated. This was simple, clean, clear. The elves needed justice, and Sar'een was happy to give it to them. 

She held out her hand, beckoning Clover to shake on their understanding. The Grandmaster took it quickly and shook strongly, enforcing her dedication to this cause. 

"When do you need us to move?" she asked Sar'een earnestly, dropping her hand and setting it on the pommel of a long sword that hung at her belt.

"Tonight. We need to get there as soon as possible," she answered her.

"And once we get there?"

It was Sar'een's turn to smile. All her plans were coming together, gelling into solidity, forming into a reality. Her careful work was finally going to pay off.

"We're going to put an elf on the Duke's throne."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many dragon age characters in this dragon age fic!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?!?!


	51. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future of Wycome is in peril, and Clan Lavellan must make difficult decisions.

Elain was very busy the evening word came that the Free Army had arrived. 

She sat poised and confident in great hall of the Nacre Palace, her Mantle settled firmly on her shoulders, maps of the city and surrounding tributaries sprawled out before her at the table in which she held War Council. The Warlords and Keepers poured over the maps and lists of resources available to them, while Revas, the Guildmaster, and Aneth'ail spoke of what formations would allow for the most advantageous positions on the battlefield. 

Heliwr, of course, was still refusing her, and because of it, she had no more milk to feed him. She was dependent on Nellia for that now, and as such, she was allowed to sit next to her on this important Council, her eyes wide and her ears open. 

Elain was slightly comforted by her presence. She could never feel overwhelmed or out of the fray when the hearthworker sat perplexed at the talk of guerilla tactics and weapon caches. Though there was that comfort, it was still quite fleeting. Her life was on the line, and even more at stake than that. Here they would all win, or they would all die. Whether it was today or a month from today, there was no compromise. Failure would be the end. 

When an Ethinan reported the news to Warlords Threlen and Den, the chatter that had filled the table dropped off suddenly. The time for careful plans and plotting were over. Action was needed. There was no longer any choice. 

"How far?" Threlen pressed the Ethinan.

"A half day," she responded brusquely, "But they've stopped marching."

"They'll camp on the tributaries before laying siege to the city tomorrow," Revas proposed, placing his hands on the table and leaning onto it, "The area outside the city there is too open for ambushes, and they know it. It would've been better if they came in from the south."

"Better, but not the case," Paeris surmised, "Either way, we'll have to meet them on their terms. Do we have escape routes cleared for the non-combatants?"

"I sent some of my people to clear out parts of the Catacombs, but if the Free Army sends folks down there, they're dead. It's too risky," Yemet answered him, "It is what it is. We just gotta fight here."

"We can at least keep them out of the battle, yes? They aren't trained for this like our hunters are," Keeper Deshanna pressed, "We didn't come all this way not to protect the people we promised to protect."

"I agree," Elain murmured. She furrowed her brow in thought and twirled her finger around a strand of her hair. Her nerves were making her skin crawl, but she couldn't show weakness now, "The Catacombs aren't safe for them though. What about the docks?"

Yemet chewed on his lip as he thought of the possibilities, "I, uh....well, I guess I got a few contacts that could take some to Hercinia, though they might not accept 'em. The mayor there might think he's askin' for the Free Army to march on his doorstep."

"It's just best we keep them in the Nacre Palace," Paeris cut in, "It's the most fortified part of the city, and we can draw up the bridge if we need to negotiate a peaceful transfer."

"Not much choice in the matter," Den agreed, "Need to worry less about that and worry more about how we're going to push this army back."

"Attrition," Threlen responded bluntly, "We will wear them down, cut them off from the city, and hope the summer floods drive them back so we can call more reinforcements. Clan Faelvir in Llomerryn can answer. So can the Silures and Istimaethorial. It was short-sighted not to raise the call to them sooner."

"The Silures are running on twenty hunters, and Keeper Wylan doesn't involve himself in battles unless he stands to get paid," Den reminded him, "They're about as useful as a dull knife."

Paeris frowned and leaned back in the chair next to Threlen he had settled himself in, "Has the Free Army picked up anymore troops since our last count?"

"No, Keeper," the Ethinan answered dutifully, "Two thousand heads, all in formation. Trained and armed."

"Hmm," was all he could respond as he pondered the situation. 

"Anything else we should know?" Revas asked the Ethinan.

"No, hahren."

"Then rejoin the rest of the scouts. I want reports if they so much as sneeze at the city. Understood?"

The Ethinan nodded her assent, then bowed slightly before heading back out of the great hall. She would do her job, but Elain knew there was nothing else that needed to be discovered. The Free Army was here, and there was very little time for planning anymore. Now was the time for action, and she refused to be left out of the fray. 

For all she had been diminished, Elain was not one to give up without a fight. And she had known fighting for a very long time. While the last year had been almost entirely political maneuvering, she had seen her fair share of battle. Some were lost, but more often than not, she walked away the victor, a ribbon of pride she wore on her soul. Maidens were leaders, battle-worn and battle-bred, and Elain had nearly forgotten that in her struggle to keep her Mantle. But now it was crystalline, as shining and clear as a gemstone. In trying to hold onto what she was, she had let go of what she was meant to be. 

Now was the time to take it back. Now was the time for her to remember the scars she bore, the battles she had won, the rush of adrenaline when her arrow left her bow and when her gladius drew blood. She was a Maiden, and if she was to die in Wycome, at least the world would know what being a Maiden truly meant.

It was her fight to win, her fight to lose, and she would call upon the Blood and Force of her patron to imbue her with what was necessary to pull her kin through. It was her duty. What she had given up everything for.

She stood up from her chair at the head of the table and gently handed Heliwr to Nellia waiting nearby. The girl took him in her arms without question, and Elain crossed around to look over the map of the city proper with her Banal'ras. 

"We have to station our people carefully. One weak point could topple the entire operation and cost us the city," she started gravely, then pointed to the lines indicating the outer walls of Wycome proper, "Here. All the best archers from Lavellan and Diceni. Our hunters are better trained on long bows, and we'll need the distance. With the river rising with the early summer rain, I doubt they'll have cavalry forces. Taking down their officers will be more important."

Next, she pointed to the Nacre Palaces' walls: great, formidable stone bulwarks from the time of Tevinter.

"The Thieves' Guild bowmen will be stationed here," she went on, "Their crossbows are better for shooting down on forces that may try to cross the bridge. If our hunters can break through the shieldbearers before they breach the city gates, then the Guild should be able to make quick work of them if they try to storm the palace."

"We can't depend on arrows to take care of everything," Revas interjected, "There has to be forces that will meet the Free Army in the field."

She looked up at him, frowning, "We don't have enough people to do that."

"There's little choice, Maiden," Threlen agreed with her Banal'ras, "The city itself is weak from the coup. We cannot depend on these walls to hold the Free Army for long. Open battle isn't ideal, but there's few options available to us."

"Well I sure as shit ain't against staying on the walls," Yemet interrupted the conversation, leaning casually onto his elbows on the table, "Keepin’ people alive is my priority. We already lost too many."

"These aren't the regular rules, kid. We Dalish aren't so different from your Guild. We don't like these pitched battles," Warlord Den explained to the Guildmaster, "Hit hard from the shadows, then slip back where we came from. That's how we like to do it. But that isn't going to happen here. There's nowhere to hide. If they see us locked up in the city, they'll just burn it to get through. If we send out some resistance against them though, they'll think they've taken the _aggressive savages_ out and be more careful to preserve what's left. City can't run on merchants alone, right?"

"Shit," Yemet touched his forehead to his wrists, "Shit shit shit."

"Yeah."

"We'll keep the youngest guild members and hunters within the city as backup on the walls," Elain broke in quietly, knowing just as well as Yemet that Den was correct in his assessment, "The rest of us will take to the field. The veterans will hold the front lines."

Aneth'ail broke his silence from his spot at the end of the table, "I will join you. The Earth Shaker demands His Hand to be raised against those who wronged our kin. If the Free Army sides with the Duke, then they are complacent in the harm that was done. My duty is clear."

Elain nodded in agreement, "As is mine. I will lead the hunters in the field with the Warlords."

"You have a child to think of. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed within the city walls," Paeris reminded her dryly. 

"I have the future of my clan and the elves of this city to think of," she shot back coldly, "What life am I offering my son if I watch others fight on my behalf? I will take the field. You have no say in this."

Paeris shook his head slowly, "I do, but I will not force it. It's your prerogative to fight. I must stay to protect those who cannot."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "And that's your prerogative. I only hope that it won't include selling our veteran hunters for the safety of those you feel worth saving."

"Elain!" Keeper Deshanna chided her, but it was too late. The tension between the siblings had been threadbare, and it was only going to take one wrong word to make it fray. Paeris pursed his lips crossed his hands over each other on the table.

"I'd only have to sell one to save them all."

The great hall went silent, and Revas bristled in his anger at the comment. It was a misstep on her brother's part, and she would not let it go to waste. She touched Revas' hand lightly to indicate she would handle it, and he shot her a wary glance, full of uncertainty. Not even he trusted her anymore to have the power to stand up to the Keeper, but an opportunity was an opportunity, no matter how far she had fallen. And if there was one thing Elain was good at, it was clawing her way to the top.

She pushed off the table and strode over to her brother, slow and focused, one foot directly in front of the other, doing her best to invoke a huntress circling her prey. He had gone too far, and she couldn't allow for it to stand. 

Paeris stared at her as she closed the distance between them, impassive as always. Where she wanted to intimidate, he wanted to be unimpressed, a blank expression hiding the inner workings of his mind. It was a dangerous game between them, one that had building and building for years, and now may be her only chance to gain some semblance of control, some sort of balance. 

She stopped right next to him, then leaned over, leaving her face inches from his.

"Then do it," she dared him, her voice as warm and smooth as halla milk, "Sell the Maiden to the shemlen, Keeper Paeris. Isn't it your duty to protect the majority? Send me off in chains and secure the safety of everyone."

It was nearly imperceptible, perhaps invisible to the rest of the War Council, but she noticed a small twitch. His jaw clenched and unclenched lightly, a sign of him gritting his teeth in his mouth. Part of him was angered by her challenge. _Good_ , she mused to herself, _I can use that._

"What are you waiting for, Keeper? Haven't there been other voices calling for my turnover? Why not bow to them? I will go willingly, you know."

The words left her mouth nearly as a song, light and lilting, beckoning him to answer her goading. His plays with skirting tradition worked with more amenable minds, like Loremaster Kellen, but it would not work in front of a War Council, not in front of the harbingers of Death. He knew this as well as she, and when his jaw clenched again, she was certain he realized he had overplayed his hand in the moment. 

"The Dalish do not abandon their own," he finally replied, his voice calm and level. It was a testament to his self control; she could nearly see the rage manifesting under his skin. 

"So glad you remembered," she rose again, no longer singing her taunts, but declaring her victory bluntly, "Now, unless there's something else--"

The heavy clunk of boots hitting the marble floor of the great hall as someone sprinted down it interrupted her, and the War Council turned their attention on the frantic dash. 

It was the Ethinan again, her face red and covered in sweat, and her bow hitting the back of her thighs as she ran as fast as she possibly could.

**"WARLORD! FORCES MARCHING!"**

They were immediately up and jogging towards her. Elain, Revas, Threlen, Aneth'ail, all of them...this was not expected.

"Where?" Threlen called out as they ran to meet her in the middle of the hall.

"To the south! Came out of nowhere. Have no idea who they are!"

"What do you mean you have no idea?! Where were you?" Revas admonished her sharply at his approach.

She gasped deeply, attempting to catch her breath, "Ir abelas, hahren. Warlord Den shuffled us all to put everyone on watch in the west. Token scouts in the south. They didn't even come to warn us. We spotted the forces from the wall."

They left her panting in the middle of the hall while the group rushed to the gates of the city. They ran through the courtyard of the palace, across the bridge, down Poppy Avenue. Revas and Yemet pulled out ahead, but Elain and Threlen followed close behind. None of them spoke. This was a primal instinct of battle taking over. Survey the surroundings, decide flight or fight, but _run run run run_ , one foot down in front of the other, until everything became clear. 

When they reached the city gates, Revas called the orders to have them shut, and the hunters on duty were quick to comply. Cries out concern and outrage flew up from the merchants and workers in the Bazaar, but they were secondary annoyances in the moment. The group scaled the stone stairs up onto the guard towers that stood flanking either side of the gates, and looked to the south, terrified of what they'd find.

"There!" Warlord Den pointed towards the foothills of the Vimmarks, and they strained their eyes to see what danger now approached. 

In the distance, marching in tight formation, a troubling amount of forces moved towards the city. There was no cavalry, and no colors worn, only boots on the ground and the blurred faces of an entire contingent of soldiers. 

"Who are they?" Aneth'ail asked quietly, "They don't look like the Free Army."

As the words left his mouth, a scurry of activity behind the front ranks of the forces drew up dust, and slowly, great golden poles tied with bright white cloth were lifted up. They stood out starkly against this mismatched amalgamation of soldiers: shining gold against darkened steel and leather, clouded by the gray dust kicked up from their march. Elain clutched the stone ledge of the watchtower, anxiety gripping at her for what they were about to face. 

There seemed to be a murmur of cries that emanated from the forces though, and all at once, ropes attached to the poles that held that white cloth in place were pulled. In unison, the cloth unfolded and released the standards of these surprise forces. 

Emblazoned on the standards were open eyes, bright and piercing, lines flowing outward from the center as if it were a sun; and then, struck down the center, a sword impaling the open eye. Elain recognized the symbol, and her eyes watered with relief at the sight of it. 

The Inquisition had arrived.

\---

"Raise the standards."

Sar'een sent the orders down the ranks, and Cullen was quick to get their soldiers to comply. They were close enough to the city that the hunters on watch would be able to see they were friends, not foes, and hopefully, they would open the gates and welcome them in. 

Hopefully.

She would be lying to herself if she thought she wasn't nervous. It had been over a year and a half since she last saw her family, and so many things had changed. She wasn't the same person she was, and part of her was afraid they wouldn't be the same either. Or worse, that they would be, but wouldn't accept who she was now. She led a Chantry organization, after all. The sunburst sat on her standard, along with the sword, and her people knew the betrayal and pain that both of them stood for. 

“Are you worried?” Merrill asked from her side, quiet so that her other companions couldn’t hear. 

“A little. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” she replied gently, “Your clan probably missed you and will be happy to see you. They always seemed like they would.”

Sar’een gave a soft laugh, “Some of them, maybe. You and I both know that it’s family, and not all families get along.”

“Very true,” Merrill responded almost sadly, “And they’re not always accepting of what we do, even if our intentions our good.”

“Yes,” she sighed wistfully. 

Her mind flooded with memories of her youth. Some of them were very warm and comforting: Paeris taking her hand and showing her how to hold a complicated spell, his eyes glowing as the dull light of the magic reflected off them; Elain sharing wine and small secrets with her, feeding them to Sar'een like tiny morsels of tempting fruit; a bit of gossip here, a small shared annoyance, a flushed giggle when they both talked about their hatred of Twig's insufferable sister; telling stories to Nellia and watching her face bloom with her enjoyment, a beautiful smile hidden behind a plain, unassuming face. They were all little bits of her life that made her nostalgic, and perhaps a little blinded, for all their simplicity. 

She was changed now. The girl who enjoyed such simple pleasures could no longer take joy when such heavy responsibility sat on her shoulders. Even with Merrill by her side, she still stood apart from this world. The accident at the Breach marked more than just her hand; her entire soul had been scarred and reformed, reshaped to fit the mold needed to change the world. The little girl who gossiped and laughed and felt a childish awe at magic could not reshape the world as it had reshaped her. It was time to let her go.

"Inquisitor, they're opening the gates," Cullen pointed out to her, and not far ahead, she saw the great wooden gates leading into the city from the main road swinging inward, an invitation for her to come inside.

"Keep moving ahead. They'll send someone to greet us soon, but I don't want to wait."

"Of course," he complied, and they pressed forward. 

The mud of the flooded roads clung to her boots, and the sound of seagulls above the shore filled her ears, but it still felt more like home than anything else. The mountains lay in the great distance, and if she looked hard enough --or pretended hard enough--, she felt she could see the great cedars that signaled the start of her clan's territory. A longing to break off and run back to those woods swelled in her gut, but it was a fleeting thing, easily pushed away; though, not so easily forgotten.

Even more difficult as she saw a group of elves file out of the city gates and onto the main road. 

They didn't venture far from the city walls, and it did not escape her notice that there were hunters overlooking them from their stations on the gates' watchtowers. A precaution, she was sure. Not for the Inquisition, but rather, any rogue agents that may have infiltrated the ranks. Sar'een knew the Maiden left nothing to chance. 

And as they slowly approached the waiting group, their faces became clear, but she would've recognized Elain at any rate. She stood as poised as usual, her chin high, her Mantle on her shoulders, flanked by her faithful Shadow. She was not alone, either. Keeper Deshanna stood with them, along with Warlord Threlen. Sar'een did not realize the Diceni would be there too, and her eyes searched for someone else who did not expect, but could only hope for. 

The hopes were realized, and her heart nearly dropped into her stomach when her old mentor stood among them, as poised as the Maiden, but somehow more resolute, more powerful than she could ever hope to emulate. And at the same time, the smile on Paeris’ face as he watched Sar'een approach with her army reduced her to that little girl again. A bittersweet longing for home became an uncontrollable need for her kin, her family, and tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.

"Inquisitor Lavellan." 

Elain's voice called to her across the small chasm that separated them now, and with a wave of her hand, Sar'een halted her forces' progression. Cullen ordered them back, and she walked out ahead of them, alone, the old Sar'een hurting dreadfully to be welcomed into their arms once more. They stood still as sentinels as she did approach, perhaps afraid of her and what she would do. She was afraid as well. There was so much fear, so much need to break this tension, this loneliness...

And she no longer wanted to wait.

She sprinted towards the Maiden in her last few steps, and for all her bluster and pride and ego, Elain let it all go for her sake. Sar'een ran into her old friend's arms, weeping with joy, with pain, with hope, with sadness, with fear, so much fear, but she smelled like heartfires and halla and resin and home. She was home.

Elain grasped her tightly, her own sobs holding her, and she stroked Sar'een's hair and kiss her cheeks frantically.

"I'm so sorry, Sar'een, I'm so sorry, it should've been me. It's should've been me," Elain cried into face, her own wet tears mixing with hers, "I should never have left you, please please. Forgive me please!"

"I forgive you, oh I forgive you!" she wept and wept and wept, and the emptiness that had haunted her for months seemed to lift, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

Elain pulled back, cupping her jaw in her hands, "You came just when we needed you most, ma falon."

"We're so proud, da'len," Keeper Deshanna joined their reunion, wrapping her arms around Sar'een's thinner body, engulfing her in her warmth, "So proud."

The three stood embracing one another, happy and sad and whole, all at once, and Sar'een wished it could stay like this forever. No battles on the horizon. No demons or monsters or gods to war with. Just her family, just her friends, and basking in the comfort they could provide.

"Ahem."

Sar'een looked up from the safety of this cocoon she had created, and into the eyes of the man who had shaped her, formed her from her youth as if from clay. Paeris had not changed in the years since she last saw him. His robes were still immaculately kept, his hair tied back in his topknot tightly, nothing out of place, including his expression. A small smile sat on his lips and an even smaller glitter in his eye, but she saw. And it was all she needed to see. 

"I've missed you, Little Dove."

She did not fall into his arms like she had Elain's. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his abdomen tightly, as if he would disappear like smoke if she let go. She buried her face in his chest and shed her tears there, overwhelmed and lost in a sea of her emotions. It was so unexpected, and so thoroughly consuming that she couldn't control herself. 

Instead, she allowed herself to be lost in it. Lost in her tears, lost in his hand stroking her back gently, lost in the feel of his lips pressing the top of her head in a light kiss, lost in the sound of his own quiet sobs. 

"I've miss you too, hahren," and it was the truth. 

She had missed him --all of them-- so much. The idea that she had to eventually let go was anathema. She'd let herself have this for now. Take and drink in all the love she had missed, swallow and inhale the people she had grown with and loved herself, let it flow through her like the finest wine. 

Sar'een was so tired, and even if it was selfish, she felt like she deserved it. She had been fighting for so long, that all she wanted now was to be home. 

In a testament to the respect and affection they held for their Inquisitor, her forces allowed her that moment, and the skies grew dark with night before she pried herself from her family's arms. She wiped away her tears and dragged herself out of the warmth of it all, but was loath to do so. She tried to etch their faces in her memories as they tried to compose themselves, the moment of the reunion quickly closing.

“Come, Inquisitor. We have much to catch up on,” Paeris finally said to her quietly, urging her to follow him through the city gates. She nodded and walked close behind him as he led the way.

“And much to plan for,” Elain added as she and Deshanna followed suit. 

As they crossed through the great gates to the city and strolled through the city to the Nacre Palace, Sar’een could see the devastation that this coup had wrought. Burnt buildings, crumbling streets, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air...and yet, like her visit in Halamshiral, there was hope here. There were signs of rebuilding, of new construction, and an air of cooperation that was absent in the segregation of the Winter Palace. Wycome would be different. She felt it in her gut.

And Elain was right. There was much to plan for. Much work to be done. The time for warm reunions and tearful expressions of love was over. She dried the rest of her tears, stiffened her chin, and straightened her back as they crossed the drawbridge that led to the palace, effectively burying that little girl crying out for her family and home once more.


	52. Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition and the forces of Wycome must prepare to face Margrave Killian; secrets are finally revealed.

The entire atmosphere of the city had changed.

The weeks leading to this moment had been full of dark foreboding, an inconvenient knowledge of what the Free Army would bring. Not liberation for the ones who had liberated it; shemlen did not work that way. The Dalish, as well as the city elves, moved about Wycome like dutiful insects, marching and flitting between projects, busying themselves to distract them from the impending doom that hung over them. 

The humans who slowly returned to the city and even more slowly aided in bringing a trickle of trade inside, went about their own business with a careless disregard for the feelings of their elven saviors. The initial concerns the native merchants had were quickly wiped away once coins began to fill their purses again. They bent with the wind, and because of it, they knew they had nothing to fear from an army displacing the elven junta. Leaders came and went, but trade was eternal. They’d find a niche in which they could survive.

A new wind blew when the Inquisition had arrived, however. This one was fortuitous for the Dalish, for the city elves, for anyone stood to lose everything in this gods-forsaken city. It was a warm breeze, full of comfort and love, as if Mythal Herself embraced Her People. There was safety in it. Security. A mother’s arms wrapped around a child, calming their fears and ills with a soft song and a softer kiss. It made Elain hold Heliwr closer to her chest and cherish the feeling of his breath on her skin. 

And the woman who had done it all sat among them now. 

It was strange. The clan knew Sar’een. Many of them watched her grow up, saw her ascension to First, congratulated her personally on receiving her vallaslin. They observed proudly, as they did with all members of their clan, the common rites of passage, invited her into adulthood and the responsibility of the Dalish Imperative, and treated her no differently than anyone else. But now...now she sat at the head of the table in the great hall of the Nacre Palace, and everyone peered at her as if she was a sacred relic from some temple. There was an awe that had settle over them as they leaned over the palace’s balconies overlooking the great hall to get a closer look at the one who had been their own, but now seemed from another world. Their gossip and chatter filled that air, a choir for the prodigal daughter returned, and Sar’een’s alienness was new and exciting after such a bleak time. 

Perhaps the Inquisitor was more worldly, but it was harder for Elain to let go of that slightly naive, young woman she left at the Conclave. After all this time, it was only reasonable that she would change and grow, but if she had, it meant that the heavy weight that had been put on her shoulders that forced that change was Elain’s fault. She had allowed Sar’een to come on her mission, and she had left her behind when the whole thing fell apart. The Inquisitor had said she forgave her, but it was unforgivable, and seeing her again only stirred the feelings of guilt that she had tried to bury. Elain was slowly learning the price of her ambition, and she regretted seeing those closest to her as the victims of the blowback.

“You look distressed.”

Old Bida had bent over to whisper in her ear, breaking her thoughts and her malaise. The great hall's noise had made her mind wander off, and the crowds of elves and humans alike sharing drinks and food and stories had lulled her into a false sense of security. Elain, Paeris, and Threlen had debriefed Sar'een before the meal, and now they basked in the afterglow of the reunion before they got down to business. Bida had sat next to her at the long oak table that sat central in the hall, only a few seats away from the Inquisitor herself, a feat the old Maiden had surely found some satisfaction in. Anytime she was given the proper deference, Bida seemed more at home. 

Elain forced a small smile while here eyes still held Sar'een, “I’m fine. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen her.”

“She looks tired,” Bida observed, “I know that weariness. The burdens of command are a heavy weight to carry. She’s borne it admirably.”

“She has.”

“And yet, you still look like you’ve eaten some spoiled food. Let your self-pity go, girl. You’ve been handed a gift of your life. Don’t squander it on regret,” the old maiden chastised her. Elain lowered her gaze to meet Bida’s cold face.

“It’s not so easy for me to swallow my regrets, hahren. I’m not you.”

“If only that you were,” she replied gruffly, “Then there’d be no worries of High Councils and your title taken away.”

“I’d also be terribly lonely and bitter,” Elain bit back and felt a smug sense of satisfactin when Bida raised her brow in surprise, “I won’t easily dismiss my regrets, but I also know that I need to build upon the actions that I took in order to protect myself. There will be many more regrets in the future. It’s the price I will have to pay for my life.”

Old Bida eyed her up and down slowly, “Hmmph. At least you’re coming around to that. Are you planning on taking the girl into your claws before your brother stains her vision?”

Elain watched Sar’een smile and hug Sohta, then another halla herder. Everyone was lining up to see her again, to reaffirm their kinship, to remind her that they existed. The Inquisitor took it all with a sweet grace, none of the awkwardness she had harbored in her youth, and it was apparent to Elain that she had learned many things in her time away. 

“No,” she answered Bida absently as she continued to observe her friend, “Not yet, at least. Many things have happened in this past year, but she’s always been observant. If she’s matured enough to know how to fully wield that skill, then it would work against me more than it would work for me.”

“You’re falling into indecisiveness again--”

“When I was decisive, Paeris used it against me,” she interrupted her, “I will not fall in that trap again. Everything that happens now must be carefully measured. If the battle is won, the change here will be unprecedented.”

“And you want to be part of it.”

“Of course. I haven’t worked this hard to give it up so easily. A Maiden must lead her hunters, but even the Lady of the Hunt knows that some prey is smarter than the common beast. I need to use a subtle hand.”

Bida frowned, “Then I hope you’ve planned well. One misstep could undo you.”

Elain sighed and reached for the goblet of wine sitting in front of her on the table, “I know.”

“If you fail, it’s all on you now, girl. I’ve done what I can,” her old mentor conceded. She tapped the wood of the table sharply, “I’m exhausted from all this commotion. I’ll visit tomorrow to catch up on the news.” 

She turned her head and snapped her fingers, “Nellia! Let’s go. I want to return to my bed.”

Nellia, who had been conversing happily with other hearthworkers over their excitement of the Inquisitor’s return at the table across from theirs, turned her head and her smile fell from her face, "But hahren, I want to--”

“I don’t care,” Bida dismissed her dully, “You can return and gossip mindlessly with your friends once I’m gone.”

Her shoulders went limp, but she relented, “Yes, hahren.”

In the chaos of the hall filling up with more and more people, the two disappearing into the guest suites of the palace went unnoticed. Elain was not unaware, however. She sipped on her wine and cradled her sleeping son, deep in thought, pondering what the old Maiden was up to. A large part of her trusted her intentions, knowing that she had always meant well and had always supported her in her own contentious way, but things could always change. Nothing would be as it was before, and those with good intentions might find a better ally to bestow those intentions onto. 

As she looked over the edge of the silver goblet in her hand, Elain knew it was not Bida whose intentions she should be questioning. Revas sat at the long table as well, settled firmly between Warlord Threlen and The Hand of Vengeance, glowering moodily at the scene, nursing his own drink. His closeness with the Diceni was becoming troublesome, and the secrets he was no doubtedly hiding now troubled her. Something had changed in him when Heliwr was born, and she feared his love for their child would break the loyalty she once had. 

It would be cruel of her to expect otherwise, she knew. And it was a twinge of selfishness and jealousy that even brought the thought into her mind. She understood the thoughts as they were: petty tantrums against the dawning realization that Revas was no longer content to operate as her personal mercenary. Or as simply hers. So many things were changing, and she had been so occupied in holding onto the Mantle, she didn’t see it as it passed her by. 

“How’s my little man doing?”

Her thoughts were broken again, but Elain smiled gently as Sal sat down next to her in the spot Bida had vacated. His presence was turning into being someting she very much enjoyed. They had a kinship in their determination to see things through, and she respected his opinion deeply, "He's fine at the moment. It's almost feeding time though, so we'll see how long that lasts."

He held out his arms to her in request, and she gently passed her son to him. Heliwr gave a tiny shudder, but stayed asleep, his little lips slightly parted. Sal smiled warmly as he cradled him in his arms, running the very tip of his finger over his cheek. 

"Maker, just holdin' him in my arms makes me miss my girls bein' this size," he said quietly, "You gotta cherish it, Maiden. He won't stay like this forever. Gonna come a day when your arms won't be big enough to protect him."

"I know. It's been difficult, but we're starting to get used to one another," she replied, "Did you ever find out what happened to your daughters?" 

She felt odd asking. In all this time, he barely spoke of them. There was instead a nearly manic need for him to take care of everyone else, as if he focused on that, it would make the ghosts of his mistakes retreat back into the darkness. But as his smile slowly faded from his face, and his dark eyes glistened with tears in the firelight of the great hall, it was obvious that the ghosts could not be exorcised so easily.

"Yeah. My arms weren't big enough."

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, "I'm sorry, Sal."

It was insufficient, and it made her suddenly crave her son's warmth on her chest. Even though her attempts to love him had been rejected and dismissed, she wished no harm to come to Heliwr. He was a physical reminder of love, of devotion, of everything she had given up, everything she fought for. He was embodiment of quiet nights under the stars, sweet words spoken in whispers, declarations of eternity pressed against lips. Heliwr was her, he was Revas; he was both of them together, and both of them separate; he was everything they were and were not brought to bear, and in that, he was something entirely new. 

He may not love his mother, but she still felt a tenderness towards him that one day may bloom. It was only right that she watered it so it could grow.

Sal may have sensed that longing, and with a quiet sigh, handed him back to her, but not before placing a small kiss on his downy head. 

"There's nothin' to be sorry about. I failed. That's all there is to it," he watched her as she adjusted her son in her arms, "Now I just gotta do better for the ones that did make it."

"You're very brave," she complimented him, "I've had one large setback, and I nearly fell to pieces. I couldn't imagine..."

"Wouldn't call it bravery, but I ‘preciate the sentiment. Sometimes I...well, sometimes we just gotta do it, you know? Ain't no choice in the matter," he cleared his throat and leaned back into his chair, but kept his eyes on Heliwr, "You know, it's kinda funny seeing your little one without all them tattoos on his face."

She gave a soft chuckle, "We don't tattoo our children. You city dwellers truly have strange ideas about the Dalish."

He shrugged, "I didn't mean it like that. Just seeing that your babes look the same as ours...well, makes it seem like we ain't all that different. But we both know better."

"Do we?"

"Now I know you're smarter than that, Maiden. Maybe your babe's father has folks fooled, but you..." he pointed at her with his index finger, then circled it around in the air to make his point, "You get it. You see we ain't the same, and that our differences ain't a bad thing. You know we got more to offer than just being thieves and paupers. But you also know that your Dalish kin don't get it. They wanna run back to the forest and live out things how they were before, payin' no more mind to us upstart city elves. I know you're in some hot water with that brother of yours, and I know it would've been easier to do what your kin wanted. But here you are, still workin' on rebuildin' Wycome and still pushin' to have me get every group on our side."

"Your people deserve better than what happened here, Sal. I don't care how different you are from us. I couldn't just stand by and watch you be put under the knife," she replied, but he shook his head at the words.

"Maybe that's the case now, but it wasn't always that way. I don't know too much about you Dalish, but I know that fur on your shoulders means something. I know those tattoos on your face mean something. And I know that something means more to you than what any of us is going through," he turned his attention to the Inquisitor, who was sweetly smiling at another one of her kin heaping praise and love upon her, "Can't help but notice she's got them tattoos on her face too. And I can't help but keep wonderin' if that's gonna mean more to her than what happens to us."

Elain tensed up at the insinuation. Even with his background and lack of resources, she knew Sal was not a stupid man. He was shrewd, and fierce in his loyalty to his people, and that he didn't trust the Inquisition meant that his people did not trust them either. Sar'een had come riding in, a savior of the elves with the Grandmaster of the Thieves' Guild at her side, as well as some of the most powerful men and women in the South. But the elves here weren't all in the guild, and they certainly had no love for powerful humans. Sal had dropped a hint on her lap, and it would need to be addressed in the near future. 

"I know the Inquisitor," she attempted to assure him, "She's trained as a Dalish First. From a young age, all she's known is that one day, she must care for everyone in the clan. That power goes to many people's heads, but she's always stayed humble and empathetic. She cares about people deeply, and I trust her implicitly. She will not abandon your people."

"I hope you're right, Maiden."

Before she could speak again, a loud, hollow ringing of metal hitting glass filled the hall. A woman sitting near Sar'een tapped a glass with a spoon, interrupting all the conversation in the hall. The chatting slowly faded, leaving the hall nearly silent when Sar'een stood from her seat at the head of the table. She smiled at everyone in attendance, all warmth and brightness, a happiness that Elain remembered fondly showing through. Oh, how she had missed her.

"I wanted to thank you all so much for welcoming me to Wycome so warmly," she started, her eyes smiling as brightly as her mouth, "My heart is filled with joy to see the faces of my family again, and it overflows as you have all let your love and acceptance known. I will cherish this moment for the rest of my life."

 _"We love you, lethallan!"_ a shout from the crowd and laughter of agreement joined the single voice. 

"I love you too. I love you all so much," she continued on, "But as much as I just want to stay and talk and let things go back to what they were, there's still much work to be done. The Free Army approaches, and I intend to stand against them. I am the Inquisitor, but I am also still First of Clan Lavellan, and in both roles, it is my duty to protect people. So that's what I will do. The wicked Duke Antoine has paid for his crimes, and now is the time to let the Free Army know that we will not allow it to happen again. The world is changing, and the night has been very long, but I promise you...we will see the sun rise. And when we do, its beams with touch the foundation of a new world. One in which elves do not need to live in constant fear. One in which we can expect justice, as well as peace. And I want you all to know that I will not stop fighting until that sun rises!"

A roar of cheers and applause thundered across the hall, and Elain beamed with happiness for the clan's First. No longer the timid, quiet girl, she had shaped herself into a formidable leader. All the fears Elain had felt, all the guilt, were flotsam in the ocean that was Sar'een's potential. She had expected her to fai; she had left Haven all those months ago with her head hung low and her doubts clear. But here stood a woman who led an army, who was changing a nation, who was turning the world to her side. 

She was very proud. 

"Please, go rest for the evening. Hold each other close, and pray to our Gods for a peaceful day. And most of all...have faith in yourselves. What you've accomplished here is something worth being proud of. Even without me, you are a force to be reckoned with, and a loud reminder of the greatness we can achieve if we work together."

The dull roar of the crowd lessened, and slowly but surely, the great hall began to empty at the diplomatic dismissal. Sar'een had let them go in a jovial, optimistic mood, however. It would go a long way to keeping spirits high when they met the Free Army on the morrow. She impressed Elain immensely with her forethought, but intrigued her more with how she would handle the Council that had stayed behind. It was expected that they would have to discuss their plans for the potential battle.

The hall slowly began to clear but for the Council and group leaders. Elain handed a fussing Heliwr to Nellia for his feeding, promising to pick him up later in the evening when the meeting that was clearly happening was over. His absence made her feel a little cold, but she would get over it. There was work to be done now, and she refused to be left out.

Once everyone had filed out, Sar'een sat back down at the table, and the smile and warmth that had hovered over her all night disappeared abruptly. The face that remained was cold, distant even, and entirely peculiar.

It occurred to Elain that it may have been a ruse, a show. How often did she herself put on different faces for different situations? That it could happen to Sar'een was unsettling. She preferred to think that she had somehow remained untouched by the pessimism and facades of political maneuvering. 

"Thank you all for staying. We have much to discuss," the Inquisitor started, her voice much more dire, "I'll begin with reintroductions so that we're all familiar with each other. To my right, the Inquisition’s spymaster, Leliana. To my left, our commander, Cullen. On the Commander's left, Grandmaster of the Thieves' Guild, Clover."

She turned and pointed down the line of the table, one by one: _The Maiden of the Hunt. Sal of Wycome’s alienage. Keeper Deshanna. Keeper Paeris. The Hand of Vengeance. Craftmaster Vhannas. Loremaster Kellen. Hearthmatron Aricia. Herdmistress Sohta. Warlod Den. The Banal'ras to the Maiden. Warlord Threlen. Yemet._

A veritable pool of power within the city and within the clans gathered silently, finally waiting to confer with the invisible force that had driven them for months. It was no secret Sar'een's help had saved them at Minanter. And it was no coincidence that Sar'een had allowed them to enter Wycome and stage a successful coup. There was no doubt that she had orchestrated this all, though her intentions were still not clear. Elain believed with all that she was that they were nothing but good, but many others gathered at the table held dark looks and darker thoughts. 

Sar'een did not cower from the dark glares, though. Perhaps Elain had come to idealize her somewhat, but there was no argument against her being a beacon of light amongst the darkness that had overtaken the world. And where she would have once let these very people gathered overpower her, she now stood resolute, towering above them, commanding merely with her presence. 

"Out of respect for the work you've done here in Wycome, and the plans you have made, I will yield the floor to Clans Lavellan and Diceni, as well as the Thieves' Guild," she sat back down slowly into her chair, careful not to do so clumsily or with an eagerness that betrayed her trying to push the responsibility of the situation off onto them, "However, after weighing the options after our debriefing and in the interest of clarity, let it be known that the Inquisition will not use the Maiden as a bargaining piece with the Free Army. I do not trade in bodies."

"You must understand that we fight for self-preservation above all, Inquisitor," Loremaster Kellen let his voice be heard first as he shrilly argued his position, "It's always been the Dalish way. We did not present the idea lightly. Two clans stood at risk of being annihilated."

"The Diceni did not agree to your cowardice," Warlord Threlen snarled at the Loremaster, "We voted to stand and fight."

"So did the Guild!" Yemet cut in loudly, "The Guild always fights."

The Guild's Grandmaster nodded approvingly from her position near the head of the table, "My kid's right: we always fight. If we aren't liftin' up the least of us, then the best of us aren't worth the blood in their bodies. Too bad the Dalish don't think the same."

"That's premature to say," Vhannas spoke up now, "The least of us were non-combatants who hadn't held a bow in their hands since they were children. Not to mention the elves who aren't members of your 'guild'. Should they be the ones put to the sword because we were not brave enough to sacrifice the one who drew the Free Army to Wycome's doors?"

"I'd hardly say I drew the Free Army here," Elain found her chance to work the conversation in her favor, "You're short-sighted if you don't think the Duke of Wycome hadn't sent missives to the other Marcher cities after the defeat at Minanter. They were watching the situation very closely. The only way they'd be satisfied were if the alienage had been purged and our clan had been wiped out. It's the way of these humans, as it has always been. My decision to give the elves here the justice they deserved was not going to stop them."

"I suppose we'll never know," he answered plainly, "Your ego took that option away from us."

"If the Maiden didn't hang that old Duke, then we would've," Sal deemed it necessary to comment on the situation, "And trust me when I say that after all that rotten bastard put us through, a hangin' was the nicest thing the Maiden could've done for him. I woulda had him forced to drink the water here and let that demon rock grow inside him."

Murmurs of agreement rose within the ranks of the room, but there were also unmoved faces in the crowd. Typically, the Vir Tanadhal did not allow for the Dalish to let their prey suffer. The Mother of Hares demanded clean deaths, unsullied by emotion and maliciousness. The gifts from Her must be respected, treated with care. It was not always followed, but her people did not relish in the pain they could inflict upon others. For some, Sal's confession would be uncouth, even barbaric. 

But the Warlords and Maiden knew the necessity of war. Morals could not always be upheld, and there were moments where terror was their only chance at survival. Elain had always tried to follow the Vir Tanadhal to the best of her abilities, attempting to resolve issues through politicking and diplomacy instead of brute aggression. Den followed The Way faithfully, nearly to a fault at times. But then there was Threlen.

The ones like Threlen, like Bida, like Revas even...they were another breed. Where Den focused his energy on his drink and his women once he put his sword down, and where Elain reveled in the cruelty of politics as opposed to the physical cruelty that could be inflicted, Threlen and his likes saw necessity in striking fear into all that would threaten the Dalish survival. Bida had been ruthless in her chasing her prey in her time as Maiden, and Revas...

They had never truly spoke of what he did to become her Banal'ras. There had been whispers directly afterwards that he didn't follow the Vir Tanadhal and that he had tortured the slavers before killing them. Elain had been reluctant to dismiss the rumors, because they had aided her at the time. No one would dispute her authority with an infamous Banal'ras standing at her back. But many years had passed since then, and she had seen the dark efficiency in which he performed in those years. 

It chilled her now to know how he was --how she had encouraged him to be-- and to see the divisions forming clearly: the artisans and hearthworkers, clearly afraid, willing to make sacrifices for the safety of the clan and the survival of the Dalish imperative, and the hunters and Warlords --Revas among them-- ready to discard their sacred ways in order to go beyond survival. That Sal gave words to this division, and clearly put his people in that camp, made the oncoming conversations all the more dangerous. 

The clan's world was changing, and Elain silently chastized herself for not seeing the long term effects while she had hunted for her victories.

"All of this is irrelevant," Paeris waved off the murmured discussion that erupted at the table with his hand, "The Duke is dead. The Free Army marches. And the Inquisition will not martyr one of her own in capitulation. These are the facts, and these facts are what we must base our plans around moving forward."

"Agreed," Threlen said gruffly, and everyone at the table mumbled their assent to the terms. Despite their source, Elain agreed as well, but the unsettling sense of urgency to choose some path had taken hold of her heart, and the room seemed to get smaller and smaller. 

"That being said," the Warlord continued on, "I think we should first and foremost discuss our plans for meeting the Free Army. Now that the Inquisition forces are here to supplement, we have a chance to win the battle they plan to bring."

Sar'een nodded her assent, "I defer to you, hahren."

Threlen cleared his voice loudly, making Elain jump slightly. It echoed through the halls, reminding her of an unholy chorus, something familiar but distorted, tainted. There was something amiss in her, and she doubled down her efforts to focus, despite the feeling of her skin crawling.

"If you defer to me, then I defer to the Banal'ras. He had spearheaded a plan that I believe will win us the day."

A palpable tension rose in the room, an air made immediately choking, with Elain herself feeling it burn in the back of her throat and down into her guts. She narrowed her eyes at Revas, knowing now that Old Bida's suspicions had been grounded in some reality. She picked up her wine again, still looking at him over the cup, and the taste of the dark liquid was dry and bitter when his eyes met hers and mirrored the distrust inside.

"Why are we deferring to Revas, if I may ask?" Paeris posed the question, leaning his elbows onto the table, and his voice was smooth like silk, "Is Den not capable of giving his orders?"

"I have to agree," Elain spoke after her brother, as her thoughts burned with the same question, "My Banal'ras defers to me, and I work in tandem with the Warlord. Since when has that changed?"

All eyes fell on Warlord Den now, even those of the Inquisition. Sar'een had chosen her advisors wisely; her spymaster watched the proceedings with an unreadable face, and her Commander frowned and cupped his hand on his chin as he followed the back and forth. For whoever they were as people, they at least were knowledgeable enough to keep up. 

Den did not look as calm and collected. Dark bags had settled under his eyes, and the bottle of wine he had been grasping in his hand was drawn to his lips slowly, patiently, so his tremors did not spill a drop. He took a deep draught of the wine, then just as slowly, set the bottle down and carefully wiped the corner of his mouth.

"I suppose now is a good a time as ever to announce it," he started, his words slightly slurred, though Elain did not know if it was from his injury that still struggled to heal, or if the wine had something to do with it. These days, it could be either with Den.

He pushed off the table and stood up, looking back and forth over the group, and they all stared back curiously. Something about his mood disturbed her, though. This was not the jovial man she was used to.

"As of this moment, I'm stepping down and retiring as Warlord of Lavellan," a gasp of shock and protests rung through the hall, but Den continued on, "I'm in no condition to keep leading the hunters from the front lines, and I can't keep expecting someone else to do it for me. So let's just make it official."

"Den, surely you can't--" Deshanna started, but was interrupted by Den using his good arm to smack the hardwood of the table and silence the crowd. The goblets rattled at the force of the hit, metal against wood the only sound that could be heard as the gathered group quieted themselves.

"I can. I am. I'm done. And I'm naming Revas as my successor," he paused for a quick breath, only the length of the heartbeat, then lifted his head to look at Revas and sat back down in his seat slowly, "I defer to our interim Warlord."

The blow hit Elain like a shield. Hard, fast, and knocking her completely off balance. Her chest constricted, unable to breathe, and her fingers dug into the wood of the table, little bits and pieces splintering under her nails. He had known. _He had known, he had known, he had known all along and said nothing to her._ He had plotted and planned and laughed behind her back with the other Warlords, happy at his masterful route of the Maiden. Revas had known, and he kept it secret. 

"You cannot just...just lay him here on our laps like this!" Loremaster found his voice and protested the decision, "We had no time to vote, no time to voice our concerns! This is unprecedented!"

"Desperate times, Kellen," Den answered him boredly, and picked up his wine bottle again, "The world is on the cusp of change, and I can't lead the hunters in it. Gods, they wouldn't want it, either. I'm past my prime, and Revas has proven himself time and again. He held Minanter until the Inquisition could come. He broke through the Nacre Palace walls. He captured Captain Donovan and commanded the capture of the Duke. He stormed the alienage when they were blitzed. He's the fucking future. Get used to it."

"We will not get used to a beast leading our hunters," Vhannas said coldly.

"You don't have a choice."

Revas' words cut through the room like the sharpest blade, and the icy glare that it invoked out of Vhannas was as if Death possessed him. 

"You'd be surprised of how many choices I have, _da'len_ ," her father responded darkly, and more voices rose out of desperation at the sudden upheaval of power. 

Elain's heart felt as if it would jump out of her chest and leave her. The unsettling feelings from before this revelation were only amplified, and she forced herself to close her eyes so that the sensation of her skin prickling with rage would not deceive her into believe those damnable maggots chewed on her body. A deep breath, a moment of darkness to settle herself, and she opened her eyes again.

“And what does this mean for your position Banal’ras? It’s obvious you've already abandoned your oaths. Will you abandon your title as well?” It was Kellen who loudly posed the question, yelling over the other voices, and Elain wanted nothing to do with the answer. She had been blindsided, and her trust had been shattered entirely, leaving its glass-sharp edges digging into her heart.

“I will renounce my title as Banal’ras in order to ascend as Warlord,” Revas answered him diplomatically, so very unlike him, but had she truly known him? “But from this moment forward, I no longer serve the Maiden. Instead, I hope that she and I will be able to cooperate and work together to attend to the changes that are on the horizon.”

Every word was another shard in her heart. How long had he planned this? How long had he hid this from her? How long had he thought so little of her that he couldn’t trust her with his secrets? She was confronted with her position in his heart shifting, and how she now had to share it, if she still wanted it at all. As all the peering eyes of the Council and the Guild and the Inquisition fell on her, she wondered if it was worth this. 

He had so thoroughly repudiated her, so viciously discarded her, but she would not break in front of these people. There was still work to do, still a battle to be won, a city to be saved. No man would render her useless. Not even him.

“While I am more than happy to assist with a seamless transition with Den’s retirement, I am highly offended that this is how I was informed it would happen,” she found her words, and deep down, she found the strength too. Her father had cracked her. Her brother had put more pressure on those cracks so they would spread. She refused to let Revas be the one that made her shatter, “There are traditions and procedures in place for a reason. Now, we face the challenges of a Council who disapprove of the choice and who may act out against it.”

Small protests of innocence rose, but she held her hand in the air to quiet them, “Please. We can discuss the repercussions of this short-sighted and hasty decision once the city is safe. There are much bigger things that need to be addressed.”

The words felt hollow, nothing but bird's bones, a fragile shell to hide the emptiness that washed over her now. 

“Was this your choice, Revas?”

The chattering ceased when Paeris muttered the question, and Revas straightened himself, squarely his shoulders and clenching his jaw.

“Yes.”

“You were not coerced or bribed by Warlord Threlen?” Paeris pressed him. 

The insinuation wasn’t even veiled. He was nearly outright accusing the Warlord of intervening. It hadn't occurred to Elain. She knew Revas, and she knew that he only fought back harder when others tried to exert their influence over him. That she was able to hold him this long before this betrayal was a miracle constructed by the Lady of the Hunt Herself. Still, it did not lessen the pain of his outright dismissal of her in front of the entire Council. 

“My son has never been coerced into anything in his life! He can think for himself,” Sohta shouted before Revas could answer the question, both of her hands flying to the table at the offense.

“Perhaps not,” It was Vhannas that answered her, “But perhaps Den had been. A mother would only want the best for her son, after all. And Warlord Den was never able to resist whoever is warming his bed.”

Sohta sprung up from her chair with such a force, it flew backwards to the floor, “ _Bellanaris din'an heem_!”

_**“Enough.”** _

Sar’een’s voice resonated off the walls of the high ceilings, startling the gathered Council. Their attention turned to her instead of the petty accusations, and she looked displeased with their handling of the situation.

“There is a battle tomorrow that must be won. We cannot do that if we are busy arguing like children,” she chastised them, and her spymaster nodded under her dark hood at her right. She turned her head to Revas, but barely looked on his face,"Speak. My Commander and the Grandmaster can help me decide if this plan of yours is worth pursuing.”

Revas nodded his head and stood up, looking over the table once more before addressing the Council, “Regardless of what you think about me, I’ve always fought for the safety and preservation of our way of life. I’m Dalish by blood and a hunter by choice, but our freedom is more important to me than any title or any position. I don’t take this lightly.”

“There will be time for you to argue that when the immediate danger is resolved. We’ve already wasted enough time tonight,” Sar’een cut in sharply. It was a bit startling; in all the years Elain had known Sar’een, she was never one to have anything but kind words and a smile for everyone she spoke to. Perhaps her feeling in her gut had been right. Maybe Sar’een had taken up wearing facades to hide herself and her intentions. 

Nothing could be trusted anymore, as Elain had learned this evening. Whatever the Inquisitor’s ploy was, she’d just have to wait it out to see.

Revas was clearly affected by Sar’een’s words though, and his brow furrowed when he narrowed his eyes at her, “Fine. I’ll get right to the point. We don’t have a standing army to face a standing army. Clan Lavellan’s hunters are skirmishers, and the Thieves’ Guild in Wycome are hit-and-run specialists. The closest thing to battle hardened veterans are the Diceni’s front line and --I assume-- the Inquisition’s forces.”

“I’ve got soldiers of fortune in my Nevarran ranks,” the Guild Grandmaster offered up, the first she’d deemed it necessary to speak all night, “They do rounds on the border towns near Tevinter. We’re more than just petty thieves.”

“Good. We’ll need them to bolster the field soldier’s ranks if we want to pull this off.”

“You’re makin’ me nervous, son. What exactly are you planning?” Sal tapped his fingers impatiently on the table, “Yemet and the Guild kids already put themselves out there enough. I ain’t gonna let you use them for cannon fodder.”

“You’re damn right we won't,” the Grandmaster agreed, “I signed on to help the Inquisition under the assumption that we’re protectin’ our people. I know shit about all this ‘Council’ this and ‘Warlord’ that, but one thing I do know is that these are my kids. They don’t make a move without my say, and you don’t got any business thinkin’ that they owe you a damn thing.”

It had been foolish of Den to put Revas on the spot like this, but in her hurt, Elain felt a cruel satisfaction as his face turned red from opposition he probably didn’t expect to have. It was one thing to watch her work and weave subtle machinations into her surroundings. It was quite another to try to pull the strings himself. The corner of her mouth quirked at the city elves so staunchly protecting their own...and at the inevitable hit Revas’ ego would take. 

“I don’t think they owe us anything,” he said tersely, “And I’m trying to protect people too, but the facts are the facts. We’re outnumbered and out-trained. In pitched battle, the Free Army is going to win. But neither the hunters or the Guild does pitched battle, and if we play to those strengths instead of trying to be something we’re not, we still stand a chance.”

“We still have the city,” Commander Cullen pointed out, “Numbers don’t matter as much if we hold a fortified position.”

“The city is still being rebuilt, and the food supplies are dangerously low. We can’t afford a siege,” he argued with the human, “We either win this battle or we’ll lose the war. That’s all there is to it.”

A quiet murmuring of voices rose at the table, but no matter what their concerns were, Elain knew he was right. The other Marcher cities could not be expected to send aid. Food and clean water were still being rationed out within the city walls. And if their enemies were shrewd, they’d perform a blockade on the docks to stop them from getting supplies from incoming ships. Despite the work Elain and Sal had thrown into rebuilding, Wycome was still a wounded city. They could not survive here. 

"Then what do you suggest?" Sar'een asked him quietly when it became clear to her Revas had painted her a full picture.

He placed his palms on the table and leaned into it, "I suggest we use the Catacombs to sneak the Ethinan and trained Guildmembers into the field to hit their back ranks. Once there, we use the Guild's smoke arrowheads to cause some confusion. The Free Army can't fight on two fronts."

"That's insane," Deshanna gasped, "The Catacombs are dangerous, and even if you do make it through, the Free Army will catch you right away! You can't possibly sanction this, Threlen!"

"I've been sending in small teams to clear out the Catacombs since before the Duke's execution. They took care of a of two more demons, but the path seems to be ready to use now," Revas answered her, "And if the Inquisition leads the bulk of the forces at the front line, the Free Army will be too occupied to anticipate us coming. By the time they see us coming out of the foothills, we'll already be tearing into their flank."

Elain mused on the plan, trying to focus on the impending battle instead of the dull ache in her chest, "It's risky. This all hinges on the Free Army being completely engaged with the main force..."

Revas looked to Sar'een, "I was hoping you'd take care of that."

"You want me to confront the Margrave of Ansburg on the field to draw his attention," she surmised easily, then brought her hand to her mouth in contemplation. The gathered council waited quietly while Sar'een assessed the information given to her, picking apart each piece offered up. The plan was shaky, and depended on the ego of one man, but Elain knew all too well how powerful a motivator ego was.

At last, Sar'een stood up at her chair, and Revas had to the good sense to sit back down at the motion. It was clear whose authority the room was deferring to, and it was clear it was well-earned. None of them forgot who had put this all in motion.

"I accept the plan on two conditions: first, Grandmaster Clover and...Sal, was it?" the old bartender nodded at Sar'een's question, "The Grandmaster and Sal must coordinate the attack with you. I want to make sure their people are protected. Second, you must have a way to retreat. You'll take me through the route you plan on taking tonight and I'll decide whether or not you can fall back easily."

"We can," Revas promised her. 

"We'll see," Sar'een turned to address the rest of the table, "I'm dismissing this Council for the evening. Get some rest, and console our kin not to be afraid. By sundown tomorrow, Wycome shall be free."

The Council clapped their approval, some enthusiastically, some only in polite acceptance. But the evening had broken something. The easy love and happiness of a reunion that had been so comforting earlier had turned into a suffocating tension. The stakes were high, and the mounting pressure to end this power struggle was overwhelming. Den, and to a larger extent Revas, had thrown off the balance they had known for so long, sending an already spinning arrow far over the target. 

Many lingered to speak with the Inquisitor, but Elain was tired in a way that hurt her bones. She wanted nothing but to sleep dreamlessly and without interruption so that she could focus on the battle on the horizon. There was a hopelessness in that. It seemed for every one fight she had won, another one, a more dangerous one cropped up in its place. What other hardships would life throw at her? What other challenges must she face before she could close her eyes and sleep?

Melancholy washed over her again, and though Sar'een watched her quizzically as she passed her by, Elain could find no heart to try to ingratiate herself this evening. Sar'een would understand. She had a son to take care of now, there were very few moments for her to take to herself. It was a simple excuse and all too reasonable. Heliwr would be the shield she could hide behind when the things weighing on her heart were too much to speak of.

She wandered her way through the all but abandoned hallways, hearing the voices in the great hall carry up and across the high ceilings of the Nacre Palace, but she didn't listen to their words. They may have well been underwater. Or, she may have well been. When she approached the room Nellia had been allowed to stay in, she cracked open the door and heard the hearthworker's quiet snoring. There were no cries from babies needing fed, no immediate need for her to even be there. Still, she picked up Heliwr's wicker basket and left the room, shutting the heavy door as quietly as she could behind her.

Elain had nearly reached her quarters when she finally heard footsteps of someone else in the hall. They were not ones she wanted to hear, but she still expected them nonetheless. 

"I don't want to see you," she said softly as she turned the knob on the door to her temporary quarters and opened it with a click. Heliwr hiccuped in his sleep, and she glanced down on him. He rested so peacefully; all she wanted was to have a rest as peaceful as that.

"You don't have to see me. Just listen," he replied just as softly, but even his voice cut her. She set her forehead on the wood of the door gently.

"Nothing you say will help this now. It's too fresh."

"We can't keep doing this," Revas said, and she could feel him looming behind her. A Shadow casting his Shadow, making her breath freeze in her lungs. There was no comfort in him anymore, "We have to talk."

"Not now," she replied, "I can't."

"Elain please..."

She flinched when he reached out and touched her waist, and she lurched forward, swinging the door open as he tried to wrap that arm around her. His touch was anathema, a darkness threatening to engulf her. She turned around abruptly, staring through him in her distress.

"Do not touch me!" she hissed at him, distraught at his intrusion, "You have made a fool of me and betrayed my trust! This will not go away with a few words!"

"I didn’t mean--"

"Leave me alone," she said before turning away and shutting the door behind her. 

Once inside the dark, cold room, Elain couldn't take one more step, and instead pressed her back against the boundary separating them now. She set Heliwr's basket down on the floor and listened for Revas on the outside.

"I don't want to fight anymore, El. I don't want to fight you," he pleaded through the wood, and she closed her eyes, "Please..." 

She did not relent though. She couldn't, even though part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted to let him in, to make him renounce everything he said and promise her he would be hers and only hers. That same part longed to feel his warmth shroud her, lay on her like her Mantle, protecting her from the darkness that invaded her soul. Instead, she waited until she heard his footsteps as he walked away, leaving her with nothing but her child and her pain. 

It was then she finally let go. Tears streamed down her face, and her entire body slid down the length of the door until she hit the floor. Everything that had happened in the past few days, a storm that had been constantly brewing, finally came and rained down upon her. In the dark, on the cold floor, the Maiden sobbed helplessly, with only her sleeping baby to hear her cries.

It seemed fitting. She had done this to herself, after all. 

_Push any beast too far, and he will snap at his shepherd's hand._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was a long chapter. And a meandering one too. I had a lot to get done so I just kind of...laid it out there. Hopefully it was still enjoyable?


	53. Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forces at Wycome prepare to meet Margrave Killian on the field; Sar'een reflects on how much she's changed

On the day of battle, the Dalish always prepared. 

Spells and rites, prayers not to be forsaken, and bittersweet goodbyes, knowing that life was precious to them, and that not all of them would keep that gift burning in their chest. Their bodies would go cold, their eyes would see The Beyond, and their souls would float across that land until they found rest in the Void. Death itself was not a frightening prospect, nor unwelcome, but in combat, it was dreaded.

The hunters would whisper their own prayers, ones only spoken to the Dalish gods of Death, Andruil and Falon'din, and those these prayers were secret in Lavellan for all but those who sheared their hair and wore their armor proudly, she knew by virtue that there would be an impending sense of acceptance of the inevitable. Death was the one thing that no one could escape; it would come, and it would come indiscriminately. 

Sar'een had risen very early to prepare for the quiet rites, while the stars could still be seen in the sky, and methodically put on her robes, her armor, her human boots, and slicked her hair with water to pull it away from her eyes. She looked in the polished bronze mirror that laid on the tiny desk in the tiny administrative room she had requested in the Nacre Palace to act at her quarters. The reflection that stared back at her was full of exhaustion; her eyes were swollen with lack of sleep, her skin was sallow and clammy, and when she looked closely, she could see creases that had begun to form at the corners of her mouth. 

She had made a point not to look at herself very often. There was nothing particularly compelling about staring at the plain face that stared back. Sar'een was never one to be vain, or care for her looks beyond presentability, so to see the undeniable marks of stress and age starting to form on her wasn't startling. It was, however, regretable. She understoond now that there was no going back to what she once was, to be the girl that spent her free hours reading grand tales and pretending she was the hero of the story. If only she had known the weariness heroes carry in their souls, if only she had been content to let someone else write the story for her to live vicariously through.

Sar'een sighed quietly and set the mirror back down on the table.

The room she lingered in was cramped and cold. It was no larger than the cells of the dungeon in which it was the gateway to. It had no doubt once housed the head of the Duke of Wycome's personal guard, but according to Keeper Deshanna, had been abandoned after her clan stormed the palace. It worked for what she needed it to, and what she needed was a place to isolate herself as she took in everything that had happened since she arrived.

The heartwarming welcome was shortlived, and it was clear to her now that depsite it all, things had changed. It had somehow been her hope that only she would be touched by time, and that only she would carry that burden. But they had changed so tremendously, she barely recognized the people she called her family. 

Or maybe she had been right. Perhaps she had changed, and in doing so, lost the idealistic portraits she had painted of everyone in her life. Perhaps they had not changed, that they had been this way all along, and she had simply been too stupid, or worse, too unwilling to see it.

A gentle tap tap tap sounded at the wood door leading to her tiny room, and she jumped slightly at the intrustion of her thoughts. She composed herself quickly though. As Inquisitor and First, she was at the beck and call of those who needed her. Reflections would have to come later, she supposed. Her work came first, and there always seemed to be more to do.

"Come in."

The door creaked open, and her guest entered while she leaned over her desk, feeling the weight of the coming day already weighing down on her shoulders. She tried not to think about whether or not she had made the right decision in setting this in motion.

"Good morning, Little Dove. I brought you food."

She turned and smiled, seeing her old mentor standing before her, a steaming bowl in on hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

"It's just oats cooked in halla milk and some sausage. I know it's not Orlesian cuisine, but I thought you might like something from home," he said kindly, and she took the bowl graciously, "We all need a reminder where we come from sometimes."

"Thank you," she scooped the coarse oats into her mouth and savored the tanginess of the halla milk and the heavy fat of the sausage. It wasn't her favorite dish by far, but it tasted like a life she had tried so hard not to forget. 

Paeris nodded his approval and sat down on a small stool near the entrance to the room, closing the door as he did so. He smoothed his robes and watched her eat with a curious interest, and she realized he was sizing her up, trying to come to some conclusion about her from the way she ate.

"Am I being too loud?" she asked him playfully, her mouth still full of her meal.

"Not at all," he responded, "Although, I will not deny that you are eating that rather...ravenously."

"It's been a long time since I've had something like this. The world out there different from ours," she replied, but remembered the kidneys she had eaten when she had first arrived in Halamshiral. The bloated little organs swimming on a white porcelain plate hovered in her mind. It was a self portrait almost; the discarded part of society, now exalted, placed against the pristine backdrop of that same society, elevated so that she was palatable to consume. 

And yet, even among her own kind again, Sar'een still felt the outsider, the relic to be deciphered and prayed over, but never to be understood. Paeris wasn’t helping her shake that feeling.

"I can imagine," he said quietly, "It must have been lonely for you, Little Dove. All by yourself, surrounded by strange humans and their Chantry, and all their voices telling you what you must do. In your position, I would've craved the words of my kin desperately."

"I did," she confessed as she scraped the last bits of oats from her bowl, "I went to bed every night and prayed to Mythal that she would give me dreams of home so I could hear the voices of my loved ones again. Some nights I was blessed, but most were full of nightmares. Ash and pain, the guilt of the world weighing on my soul, and when I opened my eyes, there were no tattooed faces to look back at me with understanding.”

She slowly dropped her bowl from her face, the nightmares and loneliness flashing before her eyes briefly. She had tried not to think about it too much, but it wasn’t something that went away easily, she’d found. Death haunted her, as did her isolation, and the strangeness of the situation now made her feel displaced. As if she was floating above it all, watching everything unfold.

But she noticed Paeris looked on her with concern, and she forced herself to smile and redirect her focus, “Luckily, there was too much work to be done to dwell on all that. Staying busy has helped."

"Having dedication to one's work is always a balm for the hurts we feel," he agreed with her, "Whenever I am away from my family and home for too long, I throw myself in my work so I do not tear myself apart from missing them."

Sar'een set the bowl down on her desk, then leaned against it as she spoke with him, "How is your family? Your children must be growing up so fast."

Paeris smiled sadly, "They are. My son is already eager to apprentice under anyone who will have him, and Meira spreads joy to everyone around her more and more everyday. I'm eager for this whole affair to end so I can go home to them."

"I'm sure. I was surprised you were even here. The Steppes are on the other side of the Free Marches."

His smile faltered at the remark, and a subtle stiffness overcame him. Sar'een recognized him pulling himself back, closing himself off. 

So that hadn't changed. Of all things that did, she had hoped...well, it didn’t matter. She loved her mentor like a brother, but she knew his flaws and knew the callous ruthlessness he was capable of. He was shutting her off, because although he loved her too, Paeris trusted no one with his secrets.

"I had little choice in the matter. As you could see from last night's debacle, Clan Lavellan's Council is in disarray. Elain's indiscretions have nearly paralyzed them by splitting loyalties and putting more power behind their hunters than was in good conscience. I was dragged away from my home almost immediately after I had just arrived back from an extended visit in Antiva, forced to deal with this problem, only then to be dragged into the chaos of Wycome."

"She seems to be trying to consolidate her position so it'll be harder to lose her Mantle," Sar'een offered up, hoping to draw more out of him. He was being unusually candid in his thoughts, but she also knew him well enough to know that he was revealing this purposefully, "I don't really blame her. It's all she's ever really loved."

"Her pride is the only reason the Free Army is on Wycome's doorstep. In her desperate attempts to hold onto her title, she's put the lives and livelihoods of many Dalish and city elves in jeopardy," Paeris divulged to her, and she did her best to feign ignorance, "Her leadership has always hinged on submission of clans weaker than her, but she reached too far here. She has put us all in danger."

_I know. I gambled everything on it_ , Sar'een wanted to say. She just wanted to share everything with him. The words wanted to pour out from her so she wouldn't carry the burden alone, and Paeris had always been so patient, so understanding with her. She wanted his comfort and approval more than anything, but she also knew this was her nostalgia and longing speaking from her soul. Sar'een knew that she could never be that girl again, and she knew that she couldn't expect anyone else to share this with her. If they did, they whole house of cards she had built would collapse at their good intentions.

The Inquisitor had to fight her battles alone. From the very beginning and to the very end, it seemed. How she wished that wasn't so.

"I will not let the clans perish here, hahren. You just have to trust me in that. And Elain's actions may be forceful, but I can't find it in my heart to condemn them. I have seen what red lyrium does to people firsthand. I've been fighting the long-reaching effects of its corruption for a year now. It's an ugly war."

Paeris looked her over once more, his mouth a thin line, and his brows slightly creased in thought. It almost seemed as if he were to open his mouth to say a rebuttal, but instead, gave a deep sigh, and stood from his place on the stool. He walked over next to her, set an understand hand on her shoulder, and looked down on her, and he let his small smile return.

"I do trust you, Sar'een. How could I not? You've grown so much since that young woman that cried for me to stay with Lavellan all those years ago," he started, still smiling, "It's a bittersweet thing. I mourn for the little girl no longer there, but I am happy to see the strong leader you've become. I trust that you will lead us admirably. You have my full faith."

"Thank you, hahren," she lifted her hand to his and laid it gently on top, "It means so much to hear this from you."

"It is my great honor to say it," he leaned over and kissed the top of her head gently, "But I must be taking my leave. While you fight for all of us, I must gather and protect those who cannot fight. The artisans, the elderly, the children, and all the city elves who cannot weild a weapon must have someone to protect them should the worst come to pass."

“I know,” she grinned warmly at him, “You’re a Keeper, after all.”

He chuckled softly, then pulled away from her to head to the door, “Yes, I am. And so are you, in your way. You protected your people and preserved your traditions admirably. That power would have corrupted many others, but you remain steadfast in your morals. I only wish you never would have had to be tested this way. It’s a burden you did not deserve.”

“It’s not about what I deserve. It’s about what I’ve been given. And I’ve been given a chance to set things right in the world, even if it’s only a little bit at a time. I’m doing my best. I want to make everyone proud,” she felt suddenly shy, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, “...I want to make you proud.”

Paeris opened the door leading back out in the hallway, but looked over his shoulder once more, “You already have, Little Dove.”

She wiped the tears that formed in her eyes at his words, and reached for her cloak hanging off her cot. Tying it around her shoulders, she prepared herself for the work that still must be done. 

\----

Before the sun rose for dawn, before the birds sang their songs to the sea, before the dockworkers rose from their beds and went to work unloading the ships as if no battle that would decide the fate of the city loomed, the Dalish elves gathered outside the city walls to perform the rites that were sacred to them. These rites were not for outsiders. Not for the city elves, not for the merchants, not for the Inquisition. They were ancient practices that came from before the Dales, and the Dalish did not allow just any eyes to see them. Despite the circumstances and despite the concerns, they were rites that could not be forsaken in the face of what was to come: groundbreaking change. 

They were lucky enough that two scions were available to perform the ceremonies. The Maiden of the Hunt could dip the tips of the Warlords' weapons in the blood of the hare to consecrate their kills in the event that they could not follow the Vir Tanadahl. The Hand of Vengeance would say the oaths that would plead to the helpful spirits beyond the Veil to aid them in their time of need. It was also fitting that the Will of Elgar'nan realized was present as they prepared to face the change that was on the horizon; in His role as Earthshaker, Elgar'nan could remake the world as He sees fit. 

Sar'een hoped her vision matched the All Father's. If it did not, she may have to face the failure of her plans written in her people's blood. Fate seemed to rest on her shoulders all too comfortably, while she squirmed under Its weight. 

She did not participate in the rites her clan and the Diceni performed. It wasn't because she was not asked, nor because her clan did not make her feel welcome. Something about it felt wrong to her though. Even after speaking with Paeris, that feeling of displacement in her still persisted. Her spirit seemed to float, watching everything with a detached boredom.

So she relegated herself to just watch.

In that secluded grove a quarter hour’s walk from Wycome's walls and far off the main road, Keeper Deshanna held the golden vessel in which warm blood from a freshly slaughtered hare lay waiting. In that pre-dawn chill, steam seemed to rise from the bowl, making the stoic hunters surrounding the Keeper and the Maiden at her side look like sentinels in a temple. There were no buildings for their people to worship in to practice their heritage. It was only here in the darkness of the grove, lit by the fading stars in the night sky, that they may speak to their gods. 

Deshanna sang the songs of departure while Elain dipped the tips of Revas' and Warlord Threlen's arrows in the blood, then spoke her words of consecration. Thankfully, there has been no protests against her performing the rites due to her broken oaths. Sar'een didn't know if it was because they had grown used to situation, or because the hunters stood behind her despite it. It would be something she'd have to find out soon. If the Maiden wasn't supported, it would only make her plans more difficult to see through.

"It's a bit strange, isn't it?"

Merrill whispered next to her, but Sar'een did not take her eyes off the ceremony. Instead, she leaned against a tree behind her, taking some of the pressure off her legs so she may have some rest before facing the inevitable. 

"A bit, yes," she replied quietly. Merrill took her lead and leaned in next to her, shoulder to shoulder.

"This is the first time I've seen a ceremony like this in a long while," she revealed to Sar'een, "I wish I felt more moved by it. Maybe it's been too long."

"Maybe," she said solemnly, "It feels like something I've seen in a dream a long time ago, but not like the life I lived. I don't like this feeling."

"It's hard. We left our People under different circumstances, but seeing it again...it doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel safe. It doesn't feel like I remember," Merrill sighed deeply, "Memories are tricky, I suppose."

"Do you think we've been away for so long, that seeing it all again reinforces how different we all are?"

Merrill nodded her head slowly, "Maybe. For me, it's harder than that. I was made to not feel welcome in my clan for what I did. I left by choice, and I stayed away by choice. I think I convinced myself that they were wrong so that I could not feel the homesickness that would lead my away from my goals."

She leaned her head back against the tree and sighed again, but continued, "I was a fool. A stubborn, prideful fool."

"That's what all of us Dalish are though," she smiled at Merrill, "Stubborn, prideful fools. Look at us. We're standing in the cold, before the sun has even risen, praying to gods who are locked away, if they ever existed at all. But we do it because it's who we are, isn't it? The fools too prideful to submit to humans after the Exalted March on the Dales. There’s no doubt you’re a part of this prideful bunch."

"I guess you're right," Merrill gave a small laugh, then looked over the grove wistfully, "Thank you."

Sar'een slipped her hand into Merrill's and squeezed gently, a sign of her affection and her camaraderie in the situation. 

"That solves the mystery for me," her friend said, "But what about you? Why is this so strange for you?"

"I don't know really," she answered her truthfully, "Maybe it's because here, among my clan, I was nothing special. I was a First who no one was excited about, one nobody particularly wanted to see become Keeper. I was overshadowed by my mentor, by my friends, by the Maiden, by her Shadow. Nothing I said or did really mattered, and I never attempted to change it. I wanted adventure and an escape from boredom, not to be the leader everyone turned to in times of need. But when I became Inquisitor...everything changed. Now I couldn't hide behind the bigger voices and personalities. I was the center of an organization that was saving the world, and everything fell on my shoulders. Now I look at this and wish for something that can never be again, and it makes me feel like everything I did with my family was some distant dream."

"Then what happens when the Inquisition is finished saving the world?" Merrill asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders and sighed, "Then I'll have to wake up."

They watched the rest of the rites in silence, but still rose their voices for the parts in which they sang the verses of hymns long dead to the rest of the world. When the dead language came from her throat, it didn't help the feeling of detachment that was quickly consuming Sar'een. She felt that nothing connected this to her anymore, and that her longing to return to a simpler life would remain unfulfilled forever. 

It was still dark when they finally finished the ceremony, and the clan members lingered to say their goodbyes. She and Merrill watched patiently while the Maiden and her Banal'ras gave their final farewells to their child. He was a little thing, with a full head of dark hair and plump, round cheeks. Revas fawned over him and nearly cried as he prepared to leave him. 

"Papae is going to come back. I would never leave you alone. I'll be back and you won't be by yourself, I promise. I promise. Ar lath, ma Da'assan."

Merrill gave a tiny smile at the scene playing out in front of them, but Sar'een brought her fingertip to the scar that ran vertical to her mouth. The tissue was still tender in some spots and pinched the soft flesh around her lips tightly. No matter what show of tenderness Revas projected, she remembered the temper that simmered just below the surface. No amount of domesticity would give Sar'een back the secrets she held in her heart all those years ago, and it certainly wouldn't bring back the girl she was before he gave her that first taste of disillusionment. 

Revas handed his child back to Elain, who cradled him in her arms gently. After one last kiss on the babe's soft little cheek, he tried to whisper something into Elain's ear, tried to set one placating hand around her waist, but she turned away from him in a fury. She rejected him thoroughly, and it was written on his face, but she didn't pay attention to that pain she had caused. Instead, she snapped her fingers to grab Nellia's attention, then began to make her way towards where Merrill and Sar'een waited. Revas, looking utterly defeated, slinked away to his group of hunters that he would be leading through the Catacombs. Sar'een couldn't help but curl her lips in a smile at it all.

"We must leave quickly, before the sun begins to rise. I won't have scouts from the Free Army intercepting the Warlords' unit before we can even get to the field," Elain wasted no time as she approached them, but did pause briefly to kiss her son on his downy head, "I have to give you to Nellia now."

Nellia dutifully reached out her arms to take the infant, and snuggled him close to her chest when Elain handed him off, "We'll be fine. He's such a sweet boy. Such a good little boy for Nellia."

The hearthworker raised the pitch of her voice as she spoke to the baby, and Elain discreetly winced, "If the Free Army manages to breach the city walls, just make sure..."

She paused and took a deep breath, "Just make sure you don't tell them he's the Maiden's son. I don't want them to think their justice extends to him."

"I won't," Nellia assured her as she rocked the baby in her arms, "I'll protect him as if he was my own."

Elain rested her hand on his head once more, then ran the back of her fingers along his cheek, "I know you will. Now get going. Deshanna will lead you back into the Palace through the Catacombs. Dareth shir'al, lethallan."

Nellia nodded the affirmation of her orders, then gave Sar'een a quick smile before she scurried off the join the Keeper. Elain watched her go sadly, but righted herself quickly, putting the facade back on before she could expose herself. 

"Shall we?"

Sar’een nodded and led her little group back towards the encampment outside the city walls. 

"What's his name?" Merrill asked Elain as they walked together to meet with the forces that were now beginning to rise and prepare for the upcoming battle.

"Heliwr," Elain answered softly. 

"Heliwr," Merrill repeated his name, but it made Sar’een’s body feel chilled.

She knew that name. Remembered that person who had that name. She attempted to conjure the image of this namesake in her mind. 

It was a name from her youth. When clear picture finally formed, it was as if a fire had been lit in her soul. A hunter, tall and thoughtful and always smiling. He was patient with all the children of the clan, and if one begged him enough, he always had a little snack tucked away in his pockets to place in the tiny, sticky fingers. Sar'een had never asked him for the treats, but she remembered one day he slipped one to her after Revas had pulled her hair. From that moment on, she thought that her tormentor couldn't be so bad if his father was so kind, and decided that kindness was something that should be shared. 

Sar'een was nearly thirteen when he died. She marched alongside Paeris in the ritual procession and saw Heliwr's body tightly wrapped in linen, with his beloved keepsakes from his life woven inside. She remembered it rained that day, and she remembered the sound and smell of the river, so much like the Minanter that flowed into the sea here. It was her first encounter with death that touched her in a profound way. But it wasn’t the rituals and the rites and the ceremony that resonated with her; it was the rain falling; it was her heart breaking at the thought of never seeing Heliwr’s kind smile again; it was the way Revas didn’t cry and the way Sohta cried so loudly, that she thought the Beyond would open and Heliwr’s soul would return. He was so loved, how could he not want to come back?

It was in that moment, the estrangement started to feel less strange, and the touch of familiarity caressed her very soul, even if it wasn’t comforting.

"It's a beautiful name," she found the courage to say. It was the truth. She had nearly forgotten about him. It was good to remember. 

\--------

“Bark an order at me a again, halla shit. See what happens.”

Revas rolled his eyes at another guildmember from outside Wycome staggering behind and falling out of formation. He’d dealt with apprentice hunters enough to have the patience to help them up if they stumbled. No point on breaking their nerves if it wasn’t needed. It kept them loyal, kept them smart, kept them willing to learn. He honestly believed the Thieves’ Guild were the same way. In the weeks leading up to this, they fell in line with his and Warlord Threlen’s instruction just fine. Some picked up faster than others, but they were otherwise eager to learn and eager to put their skills to use in a guerrilla fight. 

The other guildmembers though...not so much.

“Watch it,” Yemet said moodily to the dissenting member as they slushed through the dark waters of the Catacombs, “We’re all here to save the city, alright? He can’t help it if you’re too stupid to march in formation.”

The offended member shoved Yemet from behind, causing him to slip and lurch forward, “I’ll show you stupid--”

Faster than anyone could see, a hand reached out, grabbing the guildmember by his collar, and threw him into the muck of the stagnant water. He let out a yelp as he hit the water, splashing it up and causing the surrounding hunters and guildmembers to recoil. 

“Get up, you fool.”

Warlord Threlen commanded him, and it became clear who had put him there in the first place. The guildmember gasped and scrambled up out of that disgusting water. When he stood up again, he coughed up some of the liquid he had inhaled as he went down, making Revas’ stomach turn circles. He hadn’t forgotten his first trip into the Catacombs; the bodies that they didn’t know were bodies until it was too late, the screeching wails of the demon, the blackness that coiled inside him and froze his bones as that creature looked him in the face…

He blinked rapidly a few times, trying to shake off the memory of that battle and focus on the one right in front of him.

“I’ll hold you under the water next time,” Threlen told the guildmember ominously, “There are too many lives at stake for matters of pride. If it means cutting one arrogant fool’s life short to save the rest, I will not hesitate. Is that understood?”

“Yeah,” the guildmember wiped the snot dripping from his nose on his wet sleeve. 

“Good. Now get back in formation.”

The city elf fell into line immediately, nearly tripping over himself as he scrambled to his place, and Revas watched the show with a bit of awe. Threlen approached things much differently than Den had when he was active. Where Den was laid back and more willing to delegate his many responsibilities off onto others, Threlen took a front line. He had his hand in every pot when it came to his hunters, and he always seemed to be flexible enough to work through plans that went wrong. After working with him, Revas was starting to respect the man, much to his surprise. 

“You cannot give the people working under you a chance hurt themselves,” Threlen said to him gruffly, but not loud enough for the hunters sloshing behind them to hear, “It'll be something you need to understand as Warlord. Sometimes they need compassion and understanding to learn their lessons. Others need fear."

"Better they fear me than the enemy, right?" Revas responded lowly, remembering the nervousness that was so pervasive at the Stand at Minanter. Hunters had be terrified of dying, and he made it a point to make himself more frightening than anything they would face. That they held until the Inquisition came proved that there was legitimacy to the method. 

Threlen looked at him out of the corner of his good eye, "Perceptive. But fearlessness isn't everything. Without skill and discipline, they're just as likely to die as they were if they were arrogant. Balance is key."

"And you don't think Lavellan is balanced."

He shook his head, "Not yet. But with time and a firm hand, they can be. I poured my entire life into making the Diceni the fighting force they are today. You have to be able to want to do the same. This isn't work for the lazy."

"I'm not lazy," Revas said firmly, "And no can say that I'm not dedicated. I vowed to only bow to one person, and I kept that vow for a decade. When I say I plan on putting my soul into this, you can trust that I mean it."

"Hmph," Threlen grunted, "I suspected as much, otherwise, I wouldn't have made the suggestion to Den. But that's not important right now. You've already proven yourself in battle. Now you need to show that you don't need the Maiden's name in front of yours in order to voice authority."

Revas said nothing in response, though a thousand smart remarks boiled up in his stomach. He was trying to remember that statements weren't arguments, and that not everything was a challenge on him as a person. The Warlord hadn't steered him wrong yet, there was no point in snapping at it him over mattered of petty pride. He would just have to swallow it for now. They were approaching their exit point, and he needed to focus on that.

He stared down the narrow passage of the Catacombs that led out into the tall reeds on the shores of the tributaries of the Minanter. Revas had gone over the plans of action in his mind over and over again, deconstructing every weak point, every place it could all go wrong. He wanted every option to turn the battle around at his disposal, and even his dreams the night before the march were of the path he'd take. When he showed it to Sar'een and her commander, even they seemed satisfied. Revas refused to let his forces be the ones that lost this battle today.

But just as the narrow tunnel would end, so would this battle, so would this endless series of danger that this city brought. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to return to the valleys of the Vimmarks, he wanted to show his son their home, he wanted to hunt the summer game, and he wanted to sleep under the stars. Cities had too many walls, too many intricate mechanisms that fit together in order to work. Revas craved the simplicity his life away from Wycome brought. 

He held no illusions though. Once this battle was won, things were going to change. He wasnt' exactly sure how, and he doubted either Elain or Sar'een would let them into their inner workings now. He and Sar'een never got along, and Elain's trust in him had been brutally shaken. 

Revas winced slightly at the thought. There had never been a rift like there was now between them. The two of them had always been able to overcome whatever animosity brewed. Sometimes with words, sometimes with angry shouting, sometimes with their bodies seeking each other out when neither way could fix it. But this was larger. It was an upheaval of their entire life. First, Heliwr came. Then, Revas' own ambition setting him on a path away from her. The seam had been split, and he could only hope the fabric wouldn't unravel entirely before they could fix it. 

"Halt," Warlord Threlen said suddenly, holding his arm out across Revas' chest and stopping their procession through the murky depths of the Catacombs, "Do you hear that?"

It was a low rumble, like far away thunder, and he stopped entirely to listen. Slowly, it grew louder, and as it started to fill the narrow tunnel, the world around them began to shake. The tunnel's old masonry began to fall, dropping into the water in pieces, and dust fell on the guerilla team's head. 

"It's the Free Army marching," Revas surmised as he looked at the ceiling of the tunnel, "They're right above us."

"Yes," Threlen replied, "We need to pick up our pace. They can't be allowed to get too far ahead or all is lost."

Their sloshing through the dark waters turned to frantic splashing as the team moved quickly to their destination. A decrepit, crumbling stairway appeared before them as they made progress. It was the path to their destination, and Revas ran up the stairs with ease. At the top, water-rotted wooden doors were shut by a rusted iron latch that was easily opened. He pushed the hatch open, and light from the morning sun shone down upon him. 

"Stay low," Revas reminded those following him, and he crouched as he passed through the tall, thick reeds of the Minanters sandbanks.

The rumbling of the army was much more ominous on the surface. He could feel the vibration of their movements through the soles of his leather boots, and the waters of the Minanter seemed to expand and rise up the shores with it, as if it was being blown by wind. 

When Revas looked through the reeds, he felt a nervousness creep up his spine. The Free Army was no ragtag band of mercenaries or bandits. These weren't guard rejects or slavers who couldn't make it in the army. Here strode trained soldiers, marching in perfect formation, each one armored and armed, their sharp weapons hanging threateningly at their waists. He could see them moving in unison towards the specter of Wycome in the distance, and directly in the center, a unit of mounted elite. 

"The leader of the Free Army marches there," Threlen made his way to Revas' side, and pointed towards that center of the well-bred horses and soldiers of the Army's cavalry, "They're flying Ansburg's standards, but I see templar armor mixed in this mass as well."

"The entire Order didn't go to the south for the Conclave, I'm sure," he whispered to to the Warlord, "I hope the Inquisitor knows how to neutralize them. They can make big problems for her and the Keepers."

"As do I," Threlen agreed, "We'll focus on the archers and spearmen. Keep ourselves at a distance for as long as we can.”

“Good idea. You can hold here with the Ethinan while Yemet and I engage their flank. We’ll finally see if all this training paid off.”

"It will," he assured him confidently.

"Love that you're so sure, but we haven't fought with these guildmembers from other chapters. If we didn't prepare the ones in Wycome well enough, then they could get dragged down by the ones who don't know the tactics."

Threlen grabbed onto his forearm, gripping it tightly, but not aggressively. Revas stilled and stared at his face in question.

“When my father was still Warlord and I was younger than you now, vallaslin fresh on my face, I was eager to put my training to use,” Threlen started, his voice still very low, “I spent hours and hours everyday against opponents, doing survival exercises, honing my skills. I was certain that all the work I put into this would translate to success in the field. But on my first long hunting trip, I was nearly killed. A bear, angered by my intrusion into her territory, nearly mauled me, pinned me to the ground. The bear eventually went down, but not without a fight."

"What I recall most clearly was the look on my father’s face as he lowered his bow after firing the killing shot," he continued, and Revas listened, "It was not disappointment or anger, as I had suspected it would be. Instead, he was pleased. As my wound was being tended to, I apologized to him anyways for my lack of skill, and he said to me, _‘A scar is the only true sign of learning. A scar means that you survived, and now can look upon your own body and see the lesson you learned. Wear them proudly._ ’”

Revas glanced at the massive scar that marred the Warlord’s face, the one that had taken his eye, and wondered what lesson he had learned there.

“It would be the first of many scars,” Threlen continued on wistfully, letting Revas' arm go in the meantime, “And it was from that day forward, I knew that no amount of practice could substitute for the real thing. Today shall separate the hunters and guildmembers who have potential to learn from the ones who will be relegated to watch duty.”

Revas nodded his understanding, but Threlen shook his head slowly, an indication that he was wrong for doing so.

“And it will also separate the children playing games to fuel their arrogance from the Warlords.”

“I’m not a child,” he argued quietly, immediately perceiving the Warlord’s insinuation. 

“We shall see if that holds true. You’ve impressed me so far, but you’re still young, still think yourself invincible. Being a Warlord is about more than what glory can come to you. You must be ready to bleed for it. For your people. You must be ready to wear scars and wear them proudly, just as my father taught me. Only time will tell if you have to will to bear it all for more than just your Maiden.”

He knew arguing with Threlen further would yield him nothing. The Warlord was not flexible in his point of view, and he had no patience for what he felt were petty matters. To him, this was a moment of learning, a lesson passed down on a younger Warlord in need of guidance, not a matter of debate. Revas wasn’t even sure he could win the argument, or that he even wanted to. The words rang all too true. Despite all he felt he had accomplished, after all he had done here in Wycome, there was still a nagging need to prove himself, especially after that disaster of a War Council meeting. 

He still didn’t know why Den decided to announce his retirement then instead of after the clan left the city like they discussed. The carefully laid plans went out the window, and Revas had been put on the spot to react to accusing, judgmental eyes of not only his people, but the residents of Wycome and the Inquisition. And Elain. 

Her anger was justified. He had planned to tell her before Den announced it publicly, but he wanted to warm her up to the idea first. Now, he didn’t have that option. She was furious at him, hurt by him, and though he tried, he couldn’t work up enough courage to heal that gap. Could it ever be healed now? He didn’t know. He only knew he desperately wanted it to be.

“It’s time to get into place,” Threlen whispered and pointed his finger towards the front ranks of the Free Army, “The forces at the city have engaged. Can you hear it?”

The shouts and heavy clangs of metal against metal were unmistakeable, “Yes. Looks like they didn’t want to negotiate with the Inquisition.”

“Foolish on this Margrave’s part. It’s up to you to work it in our favor.”

Revas nodded and held up his hand to signal behind him. A few seconds later, a rustling in the reeds indicated Yemet’s approach.

“It’s time?” the Guildmaster asked him, “Shit. Of course it’s time. Now or never, right?”

“Pretty much,” he affirmed, “Let’s move.”

The guerrilla forces split, leaving the bowmen with Threlen while he and Yemet guided the rest through the tall reeds and around the bend they scouted the days prior. There was a point where the weeds met tall grasses that hadn’t been cut down for the spring sowing due to the corruption in Wycome. It provided enough cover that they could get into place without alarming the Free Army of their approach. 

It seemed like all the omens for success were alive that day. The wind was blowing in sharp gusts, making the foliage in the tributaries leading to the city rustle and sway, protecting the elven forces from being spotted. The sun was hidden behind dark clouds --an approaching storm-- that would handicap the soldiers’ vision. And the rumbling of the waves of the Amaranthine ocean crashing on the shores on the east end of Wycome was loud enough to muffle any sounds the elves could make. 

Everything seemed to be in their favor for victory, and that unsettled Revas more than anything else. These past weeks had been nothing but tension building upon tension, some unknown and foreign threat constantly looming over him. Each new day was a question of how much longer he and the other hunters had to live, and no advantage --big or small-- could shake that. 

He led his forces into position, feeling his boots transition from the sandy banks to the more firm mud of the land. The tall grasses thinned to make way for the open land where the Free Army marched. They seemed unaware of their presence. Too much was going on ahead of them, and they were waiting from orders from their captains for the next move. There was a sense of displacement, anxiety in and around those soldiers, as if they had not expected a fight. Just another portent that pointed in Revas’ favor.

“Steady,” he said quietly to Yemet next to him, who fiddled nervously with the mechanism on his crossbow. The Guildmaster swallowed deeply and streams of sweat seemed to drip off him. Revas pulled up a linen scarf that was wrapped around his neck to cover his mouth and signaled for the others to do the same. Yemet followed suit, then the others.

A bird call sounded up, loud and piercing like a seagull flying overhead, disguising its true intention. Revas cupped his hand over his mouth and gave a call in response. He heard the affirming message almost immediately. It was time.

“Shields at ready,” he breathed the order as he pulled out his own, and the forces nearest to him followed the command. The rest fell in with the order as they saw their fellows do the same, and they all seemed to be holding their breath. They waited for something, some indicator of when to fight, and the seconds seemed to become hours in that moment.

At last, the hail of arrows showered down on the rear ranks. When the arrows landed, the impact opened the smoke arrowheads, letting out great gray clouds onto the field. There were cries of confusion, then heavy coughing, then at last, understanding.

“It’s an ambush!! IN FORMATION!!” 

The commanding officer cried out, and the soldiers rushed to load their bows to return fire. Revas was there to stop them from having that chance.

“NOW!” 

They rushed from the long grasses, shields raised high, voices carrying their battle call, and they fell upon the back ranks of the Free Army with a great clash. They swarmed through the smoke like phantoms, darting in and out of the gray grounds and appearing only again before it was too late. The soldiers were caught entirely off guard, and many fell before they could recover. The return fire against Threlen's hidden forces never came as they scrambled to engage with Revas' forces. 

"DAMN IT! SHIELDS UP!!! GET YOUR MAKER-DAMNED SHIELDS UP!!"

Revas could see their commander was a stout man with a long, full beard, dressed in garrish armor that was obviously ceremonial. This army had expected to run through the city without a credible opposition, and it became apparent they were woefully unprepared when the soldiers under fire now struggled to follow basic direction in the now dispersing smoke. It'd probably been a long time since they saw real combat. Revas smiled at their luck finally going right for once.

He decided to hone in on the commander. Without a voice to unify them and give them commands, these soldiers would fall into disarray. He battered his way through the frontlines, slamming his shield into anyone who got in his way. 

"Watch my back!" he shouted out, and knew he could trust his forces to follow through. 

What his shield couldn't accomplish, his axe could, and he cut down three bowmen who raised their swords from their sheaths, but not in enough time to make a difference. He was mindful to only wound them; the Inquisitor had given specific orders to only kill if their lives were threatened, but none of these soldiers posed a threat to him. 

"Close your formation!" the commander caught sight of Revas making his way towards him, and his eyes widened in panic, "MAKER DAMN IT ALL, CLOSE YOUR FORMATION!!"

But it was too late. Another gull cry sounded, and Revas along with the other forces squated immediately, shields up to the sky and over their bodies. Within a heartbeat, he felt the arrows of Threlen's forces raining down on his buckler, and the disoriented shouts of soldiers as more smoke poured out onto the field.

When he heard the last arrows fall, he pulled his shield back, and smiled underneath his makeshift at the commander whose face had gone as pale as the smoke itself. 

"Maker, Maker," he stammered, but turned to the few heavily armored soldiers near him, "Run to the Margrave! Tell him the back ranks have fallen and we need him to divert a unit so we can take back the flank!"

The soldier nodded and took off into a sprint, but Revas didn't see the point of chasing him. There weren't enough forces here to divert. By the sounds of it, the Inquisition was engaging hotly at the city gates, and holding ground here was pointless. 

A sword came from his left in a last desperate attempt to keep him away from the commander, but he heard it coming right away, and easily deflected it with his shield. The soldier who valiantly tried to take him down fell, the back of his knees now sliced by the sharp edge of Revas' axe, and nothing stood between him and his Prey.

The commander's panic culminated, and instead of holding his ground, he dropped his weapon and turned to run as the elven forces cut down everyone around him. But Revas never let his quarry escape. He jogged after the man as he struggled with moving quickly in his heavy army, and it was only a short distance before he was right on top of him. 

He slammed into him with his shield, knocking the commander off balance and to the ground. His face planted in the mud, and Revas pressed his boot on the back of his neck to keep him there. He squirmed underneath him, but even that was pitiful, and Revas couldn't help but chuckle at it. He held the commander there as he watched Threlen and his forces in the distance come out from their hiding and quickly make their way to the battle. With the back ranks fallen, they could cause havoc and take some pressure off Sar'een and Elain at the front lines. 

"Please, please, I didn't even want to march! I was only following orders!" the commander cried from under Revas' imprisonment, his beard now caked in that dark, silted mud.

"Venavis, shemlen. I don't want to hear it," he admonished the blubbering human, "Pray to your Maker that the one who gave the orders cares enough to come get you."

As Threlen finally joined him, most of the remaining soldiers had dropped their weapons in surrender. They had no reason to fight, and no one to direct them on what to do. Yemet and the other guildmembers among the ranks took it as the day being won, but Revas knew it was not over yet.

"Good work," Threlen complimented him as he trekked through the mud and abandoned weapons on the ground, "That was easier than we expected."

"The fighting is heaviest at the front," Revas pointed out, gesturing towards the mass of people that looked more like a crashing sea than a battle, "They had no one to spare to hold the flank."

"And now? We cannot just wait here."

"Now we hit the next unit, try to take down field commanders where we can. They're trained, but obviously not used to direct battle."

Threlen nodded at his assessment, "Then let's move. The Inquisitor--"

It had sounded like thunder. A loud, rumbling boom that shook the battlefield and toppled a large amount of soliders. The elven forces were too far away to be knocked down, but felt the aftershocks of the cataclysm deeply. A new wind immediately preceded the sound, and it tasted of ozone and burning flesh. 

Revas was confused until he saw the bright, green light emanating from the source of the sound, right in the forefront of the battle, leaving the entire field washed in it's otherworldly glow. He didn't know what happened, what had caused this, but he remembered that smell and remembered that green glow and remembered the chill of the Veil being torn apart from over a year ago. 

Whatever was happening, he knew Sar'een would be in the center of it.

 

 


	54. Rift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition forces face the Free Army, and Sar'een is pushed to her limits.

“The runner in the Catacombs affirmed that nothing’s obstructing their path. The flanking team should have no issue getting behind the Free Army unless they station troops directly on top of their exits.”

It was hard to hear over the ruckus of the troops gathering in front of the city walls, but Elain made due. The pounding of hammers on last minute fixed to armor and weapons was something she was used to, and the amicable chatter of soldiers preparing themselves for battle was something easily she could easily block out. 

“Good,” she responded to Twig’s briefing as she stood just outside the War Council that had gathered in the Inquisitor’s pavilion outside of the city gates. Their voices had been drowning out her instructions, and she needed to get every bit of information she could to maintain any advantage she could. Twig stood with her off to the side of the large pavilion, with Sorn leaning on his ironbark cane next to him, both of them listening to her requests intently. It was a welcome change after the coldness they had both displayed towards her in the previous months. She wondered if that was Revas' doing.

“And the Ethinan that are still here?”

“On the walls like you ordered,” Sorn replied, “the Guild’s Grandmaster supplemented our archers with some of her own as well. We should be able to get a some good volleys off, if needed.”

“Pray to the Lady of the Hunt it won’t be needed. The Inquisitor wants as many lives spared as possible, should this come to a physical battle. I agree with her. The city won’t stand if all the Free Marches hate us for killing their sons and daughters.”

“Yeah,” Twig breathed out, “Might be easier said than done though. No matter how much me and Sorn try to talk them down, there's a lot of resentment brewing against the humans here. They don't like doing the heavy lifting while the merchants and dockworkers go about their daily business like there isn't an army on our fucking doorstep."

"I know," she confirmed his fears quietly, "But we have to trust Sar'een. She's risked a great deal in throwing the support of her Chantry-ordained organization behind the elves here, but I don't think she would've done it without cause."

Sorn cocked his eyebrow at the statement, then leaned lightly against the cedar pole marking the entrance of the war pavilion, "What kind of cause do you think it is?"

Elain looked over her shoulder towards the gathered War Council. The Inquisitor was in deep talks with her commander and the Grandmaster of the Thieves Guild. There were still formation kinks that needed to be smoothed out before the battle, and everyone was vying for her attention. Elain felt she knew very well what Sar'een had planned here --ever since her conversation and subsequent deal with Lady Volant-- but nothing was certain. There was no conversation or outright order to confirm her suspicions, but until that happened, she had decided for herself to plan as if she was right.

"A just cause," she finally answered, "One that could change the world, should it find a victory here. And we stand to be at the advent of it. This is bigger than the city and saving an alienage now. Precedent will be set, and I do not plan to let it go to waste."

Twig snorted a laugh, "The Maiden isn't going to stand by and let someone else gain some power? What a shocker."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Jest all you like, but you know it just as well as I. And with our own Council deeply divided, a leader will have to come out of what has been built here."

"What makes you think it should be you?" Sorn questioned her. 

A dark look had settled over his face now. He did not think the situation funny, but he was always more thoughtful than Twig was. Of all her friends, he would be the one to see through her. Twig and most of the hunters could be convinced if the Warlord --whoever that may be-- put their support behind her. But Sorn...he was like her in many ways. He was quick to see through plots, especially when it came to her. Sorn had been put on the low flames of the hearth while she had focused all her attention on Wycome, but that did not make him any less dangerous. He was still well loved and appreciated as a voice of reason among the more youthful members of the clan, hunter and artisan alike. 

But an even more dangerous thought sprung to mind: Sorn was Revas’ cousin, and he had always had his ear. Without the proper conciliatory motions, he may just turn the interim Warlord against her. So many pieces she hadn’t thought of and hadn’t planned for. They all seemed so clear now, but everything always did before battles. She was still slipping and had been for weeks. Perhaps having a child did make her lose some of her focus. Two years ago, this would’ve been child’s play. Now...well, now it was a matter of praying that she had enough time. 

After the pause to gather her thoughts, she responded to him lowly, "Who else on the Council would you prefer? Would you rather it be Deshanna, who commits to nothing and is content to let others make her decisions? Or Kellan, who will cower under the yoke of responsibility? Or Sohta, who would make enemies of anyone who dared to sling an insult against her? I may have faltered under my oaths, but no one else in the Council can do what I can do. Where others would let the city fumble until they found a contentious routine, I’d see it thrive. "

"It could be the Keeper of the Diceni," he pointed out to her, "He's already invoked his position as High Keeper of the Free Marches to see this through, and he could just as easily take the lead in the city as well."

"Then his plans to absorb the clans of the north --and all their trade agreements-- will become impenetrable. If we want to maintain our independence, we cannot let it happen."

“And who says we need to maintain independence?” Sorn posited the question directly, “The clan itself is afraid that the Council will descend into chaos as a result of all this. Maybe having the Diceni take over isn’t such a bad idea.”

He was testing her. 

Sorn was purposefully sowing indecision in these questions so that she would be forced to defend herself and the inevitable move to grab power she will make. And he knew she would. This was a test to see how committed she was, how focused she was, and what exactly he would see from her should the plans she carefully laid come to pass. And once he knew, he’d decide whether or not supporting her was worthwhile. He was weighing which halla to throw his bets on, so to speak.

She cursed herself for not remembering Sorn and Twig and their pull among the non-Council members of the clan. She cursed herself further in knowing that she had placed too much trust in Den being Warlord and the security that it brought. Nothing was what she expected, and now she’d have to plead her case instead of issue a command. Elain felt that loss keenly. 

“You and I both know how short-sighted that is, Sorn,” she started, mustering every bit of authority in her voice that she could, “There are more hunters in Lavellan than the Keeper needs to strengthen the Diceni forces. Many of them would be used as laborers to grow his grain to sell to the Rivaini clans; merely relegated to farming because he'd rather have loyalists in the army he is trying to build. If we give him the victory of Wycome, then there is nothing to stop him from stripping me of my title and banishing anyone who opposes him to the southern clans...or worse."

"Then maybe we'd just become loyal to him. He might find us more useful that way," Twig said darkly, "Unless you have better plans that won't alienate the hunters..."

She frowned at the statement, "And I'm sure plans that do not include Revas as Warlord is _'alienation_ ', isn't it?"

They both stared back at her, silent but accusing. She'd struck the nerve of the issue.

"Did it not occur to you that I was unaware of what he and Den had planned? And did it not occur that I have no control over it?" she remarked sharply. Now was not a time to mince words. Any weakness shown would be whispered by word of mouth to every non-Council member of the clan by nightfall, "The Warlords did not ask for my counsel in this matter. And neither did Revas."

"We know," Sorn replied, "But you were blind to not see it building. You've surrounded yourself with people who are drawing you further and further away from the livelihood of your clan, while Revas is making himself seen as a leader who isn't afraid to get dirt under his nails. All of this has been clear as day. None of it should be surprising."

"I've been preoccupied with an infant and all that entails! All while juggling the transition and rebuilding of this city!" her voice rose as her temper did, but she bit her tongue and took a deep breath to calm herself. It would benefit no one if she lost her temper, "All of it this irrelevant. What's done is done. It's Den's prerogative to choose a successor, and if Revas agreed to it, there is very little I can say or do to stop the ascension."

"There's plenty you can do, Elain. We just need to know that you won't," Twig patronized her, "Den wasn't a bad Warlord, but things are changing. The hunters need a leader that can see them through it, and they don't think you're that person anymore."

"And Revas is?" she asked coldly.

"He's one of the biggest reasons why this city is even under our control," Sorn reminded her.

Elain folded her arms over her chest tightly and shifted her weight between her feet nervously. She couldn't argue that point, and she couldn't forget the sword fated to kill her being disrupted by him as well. For all his faults, she knew that he wasn't an empty pawn that the Warlords were using to diminish her. It's why he'd been such an effective Banal'ras and why losing him was a blow to her authority. 

"You've been controlling him so long, it's hard for you to see him thrive on his own. But Twig's right: things are changing. The whole damn world is changing, and you're going to get left behind unless you learn to bend to meet it," Sorn spoke to her gently now, a placation in hopes of convincing her to relinquish something she was not ready to let go of, "This is not a debate. You have to learn to work with him, or you'll be against him, and we don't want to see the Council torn further apart because of it. And you won’t like whose side the hunters will choose."

"He oathed himself to me," she argued hoarsely, the words barely coming to her. She was not ready for this. It was too soon.

"It's time to let him go, El," Twig said quietly, "He's lived as your Shadow long enough. Let him step into the light."

She closed her eyes slowly and inhaled the morning air, letting the salt from the sea sting her nostrils. At long last, the fears she had harbored since she first put on the Mantle came home to roost. Elain had always known Revas would tire of the burden of being her Shadow, and by extension, tire of her. Still, they played their games for years, buying time, hiding their secrets, only whispering it between them when they were alone but for the ancient stars hanging in the skies. Under those stars, they were just Elain and Revas, and titles did not matter as much as love that grew between them. 

But the fantasy had to be shattered one day. Elain had known it could not last forever, and she had known it was cruel of her to expect it to. Heliwr's conception was only the catalyst for the inevitable downfall. And now...now they hid their secrets from one another and played different games; ones even less sustainable than the games they played before. 

It pained her tremendously, but her friends were right. She had clutched him to her chest, grasping for something she couldn't hold as he grew more and more restless in his position. It was time to set him free.

"What do you want of me?" 

The pair looked surprisedly between one another. They perhaps expected a harder fight or assumed they would need to erode away her will until she relented. They underestimated how much love she still held in her heart for her Shadow. And so had she.

"We need you to not undermine him to prevent his ascension. And we need you to raise your voice in support of him in Council," Sorn explained matter-of-factly, "This battle will end today, and I have no doubt it'll be in our favor. And you know that too."

"I do," she affirmed softly and moved her gaze to the ground. It was all happening so quickly.

“And you know that someone’s going to have to pick up the pieces here. We all know that you want to be the one to do it. There’s no use denying it.”

Elain was suddenly very tired, and felt exposed, vulnerable. She wanted to be rid of her friends, rid of the whole world around her, and burrow into the earth to lick her wounds. And wounded she was. Every defeat she had faced thus far was compounded by the painful realization that the fault for each fell on her shoulders. Paeris’ subtle manipulation, Vhannas’ heartless machinations, and Revas’ deflection to move into his own position independent of her...all of it she should have seen coming. But she was too stubborn to open her eyes.

Still, she would not apologize for her wanting to preserve herself and all that she loved. Though not entirely selfless, her desperate grabs in Wycome had been to protect her new family, so that they were not scattered to the wind when she was finally judged for her indiscretions. She had tried, in her own way, to stop it. Whether it would be enough was still unanswered, but until that answer was decisive, she refused to stop fighting. 

“Even if you hadn’t pushed me against this wall, I would not deny it,” she responded to Sorn’s accusation dully, “I have worked hand in hand with the people of this city --elf and human alike-- and I would be hard-pressed to let all my work be torn asunder. Whether you and your Warlord realize it or not, the pieces are already in my hands. I merely need to move them more deftly than my opponents."

"Your opponents have outplayed you so far," Sorn reminded her, then looked towards Twig as if to confirm something with him, then his eyes were back to her again swiftly, "But still...we know things aren't going to be the same again. We're not going back to Autini and pretending this coup never happened. I know it, you know it, the hunters know it, the non-combatants know it. And we also know what being absorbed into Clan Diceni means..."

"Means I'm working the fields and Sorn is sent to the kitchens to grind grains for the rest of his days," Twig jumped in, "And that's just us. We know how this ends if you don't come out on top of Keeper Paeris, and we don't like it."

"So after you've torn my heart out and stepped on it, you want my help?" she asked bitterly. It was all becoming clear to her now. They wanted to guilt her into doing what they saw as the right thing and were using Revas as a bargaining piece, "Despite what the rumors and conversations around hearths say, I'm not some pillar of ice. I feel hurt, I can feel pain, I can feel heartbreak. I do not make my decisions lightly, and no matter what the outcome of this battle, I never intended to punish Revas for going his own way. It was my burden to bear, and you've poured salt on an open wound."

"El, we didn't mean to hurt you..." Sorn started, "We were just worried about retaliation. It's the last thing the clan needs from you right now. You're going to have to be unified with as many people on Council as you can to pull off what we think you want to pull off..."

"And what's that?"

Elain started at the voice that snuck up behind her. They were so fully focused on their own grievances, the little group did not hear Sar'een's approach. She stared at them intensely, her face twisted into a mocking curiosity. The Inquisitor was not amused with their banter, it seemed.

"Go prepare the hunters," Elain ordered them, and both Sorn and Twig --wide-eyed in their being caught off guard-- scurried away quickly to do as they we asked. 

It had been foolish to have that type of conversation so candidly. She was afraid of who else might have been privy to it. Elain trusted Sar'een, but this is not the conversation she was expecting to have with her so soon. Still, there was no point in withholding. Clan Lavellan and their Maiden were alive at the behest of the Inquisitor, and she would not heap disrespect on the person they owed their lives too. Elain crossed her arms over her chest tightly and sighed.

"They were discussing the plans they think I've put in place to take over the city."

Sar'een cocked her head expectantly, "Plans?"

"I have no plans. Not concrete ones, in any case," she admitted, "I've orchestrated the rebuilding of the city and established friendly relations with the remaining humans in an effort to give our clan some allies in this fight, had you not been able to come to our aid. I believed I was doing what you had implied I should do in your letter to Lady Volant after we successfully led the coup against the Duke."

The Inquisitor smiled, "Right. That. How could I forget?"

Elain returned the smile, "I don't believe for a moment you did."

Sar'een shook her head, "I didn't. I just didn't like hearing Twig and Sorn brow beat you like that. If Revas is going to be a Warlord, he has to fight his own battles, not let his friends do it for him."

“How much did you hear?”

“More than enough,” she said softly before looking outside of the pavilion and onto the fields leading to the west, “I did put this on you, but it was because I knew you could do it. I needed someone here I could trust to get the city on the path I needed to pull this off. Had I known it would be used against you…”

“Hush, falon,” Elain reached out and touched her hand, taking it into hers and squeezing it gently, “You did what you had to, just as I did what I had to. The hunters and the artisans and the Council...none of them see how important this is. They’re afraid of what’s to come and afraid of what will happen to them. Their entire world is our hunting ground, and everything outside of it is a threat. But I _know_ you. I know that you have seen the world and that you would see injustice and do everything you could to make it right. So there is nothing to apologize for. I have not regretted the work that has been done for the people of Wycome, nor the part I’ve taken in it. I’m proud to have been part of your vision, even if you haven’t told us what it is.”

“It’s too soon,” she replied, but squeezed back, “I promise you that you’ll see it all, but I can’t--”

“You can’t jeopardize what has to be done here today. I understand.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate that,” Sar’een started, “Everything --and everyone-- has been so different since I’ve arrived. It’s been a little overwhelming, to be honest. I don’t know why I thought everything could go back to how it was, though. Not even the Dalish can stay the same when the whole world is being torn apart at the seams. You’re different now. Our clan is different. I’m different. It’s time for me to accept that, I think.”

The sun was rising quickly in the east and illuminating the tributaries that surrounded the western road. Elain basked in the simplicity of watching the dawn with her friend, even if their nerves were open and exposed, “I’m coming to find it difficult to accept myself, but we can’t stop the progression of time. Better that we’re at the forefront, making the path, instead of shuffling behind on the road already cut, but made too narrow for our people to thrive.”

“And that’s what we both want? For our people to thrive?”

The pitch in Sar’een’s voice rose as she asked the question, and Elain recognized it for what it was: a simple plea that her vision matched the Maiden’s, and that she wasn’t alone in this. She interlocked her fingers with the Inquisitor’s, giving her what comfort she could in the chaos of this waking world. 

“Yes. For _all_ of our people,” she replied bluntly. Despite the hunger gripping her heart to shape this city from the ashes of the human rule, she would not do it at the expense of the elves native to its winding streets. They’d endured enough. She would not see unnecessary pain inflicted upon them.

Sar’een smiled again, this time lighter, an echo of Elain’s memories of her before she was the Inquisitor.

“Then I guess some things have changed for the better.”

They stood in companionable silence for only a moment; perhaps the last moment of peace they would have together for a long time. It was fleeting, of course, as all moments such as these are. But Elain couldn’t find it in herself to be too sad over it. Her friend was here, and the easy understanding they had of each other --their great attributes and their fatal faults-- was returning bit by bit. And for that, she was glad. Elain had never wanted to leave Sar’een behind, but there was no arguing that she had grown and blossomed because of it. And perhaps Elain had too. 

The scions of June --The Children of the Forge-- have a saying that rang true for her now: _necessity is the womb of ingenuity_. When the stakes were high, and the odds seemed insurmountable, the brightest and best of them would always find a way. Elain wanted to believe with all her heart that it would be the same for her, for Sar’een, for the Dalish, for the city elves, for Wycome. They had been thrown into the fire, and from that fire, they had forged an armor of kinship, impenetrable to the forces that would see them defeated. At least, she had hoped this to be the case. The strength they had gained here would be tested very soon.

The sun rose fully, taking with it the drowsiness of night, and the glint of its penetrating rays reflected brazenly off the armor of the Free Army marching up the Western Road.

\---

Sar’een had never seen battle before. Not like this. She stood alone to defend Haven, and she attacked Adamant Fortress head on. Both times, it was a race to stop even worse evils from being inflicted onto the innocent.

This was different.

This was a battle like in her most cherished books; like in all the stories she had read over time; like all the tales Paeris had told her by the winter hearths. Two armies set to meet on equal grounds, one a force for the good, the oppressed, the downtrodden. The other, a force of suppression, here to silence the voices that had fought so hard to finally be heard. It would be battle to be remembered. One that bards would sing about across Orlais and that Val Royeaux’s enthusiastic theatrical crowd would fawn over. It was one she could be proud of, if it all went well.

But the worm of insecurity chewed on her heart as she watched a rider trot up and down the ranks of the Free Army on his pedigreed horse. The horse’s _chanfron_ was emblazoned with the sigil of Ansburg --a solitary sickle-- and the rider glared down at her front ranks from his elevated position. It made her feel small in the moment, but she knew that it was done purposefully for that very reason. Sar’een reminded herself that she had no reason to be intimidated. The Margrave of Ansburg commanded an army, but so did she.

“I wish to speak to the commander of your forces!” the rider demanded, pulling on the reins of his mount and slowing him to a stop. The horse whickered quietly but settled itself right in the central front line of the Free Army.

Cullen, standing to her left, leaned down slightly and whispered, “Shall I speak to them?”

She nodded, “Yes. Giving away who I am right away may work against us. Let them believe I sent you in my stead.”

“Understood,” he affirmed, then strode out in front of the rest of their ranks, her elite bodyguards following closely behind him. The Inquisition’s standard fluttered slightly in the wind, casting a dancing shadow over Cullen as he made his approach.

“I wish to speak with Margrave Killian so that we may avoid any bloodshed today,” Cullen requested, his want for a resolution instead of a battle clear in his words, but the rider seemed unimpressed.

“And you are?”

“I’m the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, following the Inquisitor’s direct orders. Once again, we’d like to speak with the Margrave.”

The rider picked up the reins of his mount again, bringing his horse back at the ready. It stomped its front hooves once, twice, thrice, then whinnied softly. He was preparing to fall back. Sar’een hoped it was so that he could give the message to the Margrave, but her guts told her otherwise.

“The Margrave isn’t interested in a negotiation. He requests the unconditional surrender of Wycome and that the Dalish Maiden be handed over so that justice is done for the deceased Duke Antoine.”

Cullen’s face turned to stone, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Sar’een gave a small nod to affirm the course of action they had discussed earlier in the morning, and with that approval, he stared at the rider prancing in front of him. Elain shifted her weight between her feet next to her, but she ignored her friend’s nervousness. No matter the circumstances, Sar’een refused to sacrifice any of her kin for the sake of pleasing a noble.

“There will be no unconditional surrender and there will be no hostages. The Inquisition has evidence of war crimes done to the elves here, and we will not move a single step if their safety is not guaranteed. Take that to your Margrave and return with his answer.”

The rider stared Cullen down, then looked over the stony silence of the Inquisition and elven forces. She wondered for a flash of a moment if he would refuse, but with a click of his tongue and a pull on the reins, he led his mount westward, back through the infantry ranks, to take the message to his own commander. Cullen shrugged his shoulders and fell back into the line, but his brow was furrowed in worry. 

"Do you think he'll be willing to talk?" she asked him. His mouth turned downwards in a frown, but it was Elain who answered.

"No," she said bluntly, "A single rider speaking in front of a gathered contingent is never a sign of open communication. It's a show of intimidation. The Margrave believes us to be below him, and he used his herald to express that. Their forces will be emboldened by this, while ours will either become frightful or fight angry. Neither one is ideal."

"She's right," Cullen agreed, "The Margrave probably thinks this is all a show for him. Ansburg has always been one of the less powerful Marcher cities, despite their location. Killian sees a chance to change that."

"And will winning a battle here do that?" Elain let the question hang in the air between them, "Or will other cities see it as wholesale slaughter?"

Sar'een crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the Free Army waiting idly for the call to action. She knew the Free Marches weren't like Orlais, but she also knew The Game was played everywhere that old blood considered itself bluer than the rest. In the Free Marches, in Nevarra, and even among the Dalish...power and prestige meant everything, and the strongest claim came from birthright, not from skill. 

Margrave Killian would see the chance to take over Wycome, install his own puppet as Duke, take control of the trade routes in the Marches, and make a decisive blow to the outsider organization trying to decide the fate of this northern city. Unlike the south, there was little to earn from siding with the Inquisition, and everything to gain from usurping the power they had made here. 

"The other cities will see it for what it is: a power grab. The question now is whether or not they'd prefer to work with the Margrave or put their trust in me and the Inquisition," she answered Elain, "But we should be more concerned about the battle that is coming. Are you ready?"

Elain brushed her fingers over the feathered ends of the arrows tucked into the quiver at her waist, "Yes."

She turned her head towards Cullen, "And our forces as well?"

His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and he nodded, "At your command, Inquisitor."

They waited for what seemed like hours. Grandmaster Clover joined them on the front lines, a few scouts reported activities, and the standing forces grew impatient at the idleness. Sar’een knew it had not been as long as it felt, but every minute that passed by was a minute for her to second guess her plans, their chances of winning, and her own decisions. Had she done enough? Was this effort all in vain? Had she damned her family to destruction? Had she reached too far?

A year and a half ago, these questions would never have entered her mind. She would’ve dwelled on her insecurities and recalled memories of Paeris’ lessons to her to try to apply them to the situation. Somewhere along the way, she learned to not lean on her mentor’s guidance alone, and developed her own methods of decision making. Where she fumbled before, instinctual discipline grew and thrived. The Winter Palace had proven that. She needed to trust herself more. 

It was difficult to do while staring in the face of an army, though.

“What’s takin’ him so long?” Clover asked impatiently from Elain’s right side, “This ain’t a tough decision to make.”

“He’s toying with us, Inquisitor,” Cullen warned her. 

“He is, but there’s little we can do about it,” Elain responded tersely, “If we strike first, then we lose any moral argument for peace. And that’s what the Margrave wants, I assume.”

Sar’een slowly nodded, “I know. We won’t give it to him. No one lifts a finger until we’re left no other option. This is in Margrave Killian’s hands now.”

And what impatient hands the leader of Ansburg had. The rider never returned, but the infantry grew restless, gripping their weapons and throwing crude comments towards the Inquisition’s forces. Her people stood resolute, but the elves were not trained like humans were. Guild members and hunters from her clan alike hurled their own insults, and the quiet morning was giving way to a cacophonic stand-off as the two opposing sides clashed with words. Sar’een wished they’d have held their tongues; they’d be eating their words soon enough.

The tension grew to a near fevered-pitch, each side shouting louder than the other. When they started to unsheath their weapons and wave them brazenly in the direction of their opponents, Sar’een took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see which side would make the first blow. Instead, she listened to Elain and Clover attempt to calm their charges and as Cullen barked orders at her own as they joined in the baiting. 

She opened her eyes just in time to see a solitary arrow fly in the air. It came from the flank of the Free Army, to her relief, and fell solidly into the ground before their feet. It was as if a rope had been drawn and pulled so tight, that it began to unravel, until at last, it snapped violently. 

“ _ **Attack!**_ ” was the cry shouted from the Free Army officers, and Cullen worked rapidly to prepare for the blow.

“Shields up!” he called out confidently, and their front lines met the order admirably. Their tower shields --emblazoned with the insignia of the Inquisition-- rose, and the ranks closed tightly, forming a veritable wall. Sar’een made a step backwards as they closed in at her front. 

“Assan ghilan dirnival!” 

With Elain’s order, the Dalish hunters drew their blades. She pulled her own gladius from her sheath next to Sar’een, ready to push back should the Free Army break their wall. A rain of arrows would have been far more effective, but they had to consider saving lives. Swords and daggers were easier to incapacitate with than arrows were. 

This did not stop the Free Army from firing their own volley, and their arrows cast long shadows down westward. Sar’een expected it however, and drew in on her mana to cast barriers over their front ranks. The golden light and sensation of comforting warmth washed over them momentarily, and the arrows slated for death missed their mark. She sensed the same type of magic from behind her, as Vivienne, Solas, and Aneth’ail followed suit, casting their own barriers over the vulnerable ranks further from the shield wall.

One after another, more volleys came, each one ending with their dangerous little projectiles falling helplessly into the magic and disintegrating into nothing. But now, the arrows weren’t the problem. The loud _clang_ of metal hitting metal rung in the air as the Free Army’s infantry fell on their front ranks. They beat against the tower shields, pressing them backwards and forcing her to make decisions.

“Try not to kill if you don’t have to!” she shouted over the melee, “Go for their limbs as they come through!”

No sooner had the orders left her mouth did Elain cut back a breakthrough infantryman front their front. She thrust her gladius into the spacing between his poleyn and greave with pinpoint precision, and his pained yelp indicated she had hit her intended target. The infantryman fell, knocking back several of his fellows behind him, buying them precious heartbeats for the tower shield bearers to close the gap once again. 

More broke past the shields, and more fell back once they were met with Dalish ironbark blades and Thieves Guild steel daggers. There was a lot of movement from both sides, but Sar’een did her best to focus. The barriers were essential to keeping her people --and the Free Army-- safe. She needed to time their expenditure, work in tandem with the magical energy pulling on the Veil around her, try not to overlap her magic with the other mages doing the same. And should the barriers fail, she needed to be able to insert herself quickly to diffuse whatever harm may come.

It was far more difficult than she originally planned. She wasn’t used to sustained battles such as these. Quick, violent bouts were what she had grown accustomed to, but too many people depended on her to falter. She inhaled sharply and cast her barriers anew as yet another surge of Free Army soldiers broke through their wall. 

“The right is coming to flank! PUSH!!” came a cry from beyond the surging ranks, some captain or leader of the contingent, and with the order, Sar’een felt the force of their frontlines being pushed backwards. The shieldbearers held admirably, but it was not sustainable. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the long, winding line of Free Army soldiers slinking around their front ranks to flank her forces on the south. They’d be pressed up against the city walls soon enough. She spat curses at the Margrave for forcing this under her breath as she cast another barrier. 

“We have to be more aggressive!” Cullen called out over the fray, “If we don’t, they’ll finish this before we’ve even started.”

Another round broke through the tower shields, and this time, there were enough of them to separate the shieldbearers from their fellows. A weakened hole had appeared, and it would not be long before that hole widened. Clover and several of her fellows struck back in blinding blows. While the soldiers flung their maces over their head to come back down on the failing shieldbearers, they threw knives and hopped in between with their daggers to stunt the blows.

“Aggressive enough for ya?” the Grandmaster yelled over the noisy field to Cullen before kicking an approaching soldier in the stomach, making him double over in pain. She finished with a swift blow to the back of his head with her pommel, then looked up again, panting, “Or should I go harder?”

Her jest was interrupted with a series of shouts. Piercing, loud ones, followed by the slow rumble of earth.

_“The horses are spooked!”_

Discordant voices came from beyond the front lines of their opposition as their unit of mounted cavalry ran circles in the center of their ranks, sowing chaos as they did. Sar’een reached into her well of mana, touching the Veil nearly casually, intimately, so used to its presence and caress now. She cast a stronger barrier, invigorating the front ranks with her magical energy, hoping to invigorate their spirits as well as they faced a quickly deteriorating situation.

“Cullen,” she called to him calmly, “Send a runner to The Iron Bull. Have him bring his unit around to the right to fortify us. It looks as if the hunters were able to flank the back of the Free Army, and they are going to start fighting sloppy.”

He nodded his agreement, then fell back to send the message. Elain worked her way into his place, weaving and bumping through the bodies pressing back against the fitful bursts of energy. 

“Revas did it. Look at the smoke rising towards their rear,” she said, pointing over the heads of their front line and towards the mass of chaos brewing in the farthest west contingent of the Free Army, “The Margrave is trapped. If we can hold out, he’ll have no choice but to surrender.”

Sar’een cast another barrier, and watched the battle with a dawning sense of anxiety brewing in her chest, “I don’t know. Margrave Killian underestimated our forces, but he’s not without means. I won’t count on anything until everyone’s weapons are put away.”

“I hope it happens soon,” Elain responded glumly, pointing her chin towards the elven forces struggling to not hurt the Free Army troops, “This isn’t sustainable.”

It wasn’t. The battles cries grew into frantic yelping as the Free Army found itself in a vice; a walled city and an Inquisition guarding it, and a contingent of forces flanking them from behind, firing smoking arrows, obstructing their views, choking their air, and spooking the animals.

And as their cries grew frantic, so did their actions. They pushed forward with all the might they could muster, breaking apart the shield wall slowly, but not making any progress in their advance. There were too many captains barking conflicting orders, too much chaos rising up too quickly. But this also meant it was dangerous for Sar’een’s people. Desperate fighters were unpredictable, and surprise could bring down an army as quick as a blink, if the current state of the Free Army was any indication. 

_“They’re pressin’ us up against the wall! We need some backup!”_

Sar’een turned to see Grandmaster Clover swinging her sword away --along with her guildmembers-- at the soldiers breaking away and running around the wall, attempting to pin the guild fighters up against the Inquisition’s shield bearers. From the looks of it, it was starting to work. The bearers were forced forward, losing footing, and as quick as lightning, the trickle of soldiers became a flood.

“Elain!” she yelled, but her friend was already moving. 

“Lavellan! Form up on me!” Elain shouted, the hunters immediately closed in around her as she pushed her way eastward to Clover’s position. Sar’een cast yet another barrier and bit her lip in worry. Maybe she shouldn’t have let Revas and the hunters flank the Free Army; maybe she shouldn’t have forced a battle; maybe she shouldn’t have led her family into this; maybe she had overreached her hand, and the might of the humans would quash her and her kind for their hubris. So many maybes, and not one answer in this chaos.

“Boss! I’m here! We’re going to cut them off on the right!” 

She heard him first, then felt his large, but undeniably comforting hand set on her shoulder. Bull was always a reliable presence, and she needed that reliability now more than anything.

“Thank you, Bull,” she patted his hand and smiled at him after she saw his contingent flow forward towards the heat of the battle, “Just in the knick of time too! The wall was breaking.”

He gave her a wink with his good eye, “Not while I’m here. You can count on me, boss.”

Order began to reassert itself, and the Free Army soldiers started to fall to the ground, their armor and weapons compromised, but their wounds non-life threatening. Sar’een continued to cast her barriers frequently, protecting her people from the desperate fighters trying to break through their ranks, but the constant need for mana was exhausting her from the inside out. She wasn’t used to long battles like this. Hopefully something would give...and soon. 

_“Spread out! The Maiden wants us to fortify the front defenses!”_

The order called out amongst the tumultuous field from a Lavellan hunter seemed innocent enough, and at first, Sar’een thought nothing of it. The Free Army soldiers were listening very carefully, though, and it was nearly blinding how quickly they adjusted their tactics to the new information.

“THE MAIDEN! SHE’S THERE!”

A shout ringing across the battle.

“A BAGFUL OF SOVEREIGNS FOR WHOEVER CAPTURES THE MAIDEN! _MARGRAVE’S ORDERS!_ ”

The soldiers grouped up against the already faltering section of their wall, and managed to ram themselves through with alarming speed. Sar’een watched it unfold in disbelief. How had this happened? They were rallying…

The wall fell quickly; shieldbearers were knocked over then trampled on as the frenzied soldiers hunted for their prey. Lavellan’s hunters formed up around Elain though, blocking them momentarily from reaching her position. Around her, Sar’een felt her own people pushing their way to the scene, desperately trying to stop this swarm from getting their intended target. Cullen and Bull both shouted loudly, order over the maelstrom, but the number of people started to crowd the area, making it difficult to even see what anything but fully-armored shoulders falling over one another.

“DO NOT LET THEM BREAK THROUGH!” It was Cullen again, but Sar’een recognized the frustrated and frightened shouts of her Dalish kin drowning him out. She stood on the tips of her toes, desperately trying to see what was happening. All she could see was a veritable sea of bodies, heads and shoulders stacked upon heads and shoulders, and all centered directly on where Clover had sent her call for aid. Everything was becoming a blur, and Sar’een herself was becoming more and more lost in this sea, realizing just how much she was in over her head.

It was the scream that curdled her blood and made her understand how lost she was. 

Sar’een recognized the voice that it originated from, and also recognized the pure terror it exuded. She felt like ice: immobile, frozen, and perpetually cold. The world around her slowed as well, and a tiny layer of frost climbed up her fingers. It had a been a long time since fear paralyzed her and made her magic act of its own accord; she had hoped she was beyond that. 

But she felt just like a child once again as she watched hopelessly as Elain was ripped from the arms of her hunters and pulled into a rabid mass of humans. They yanked her by her hair and her Mantle, pulled her down into their undertow, and the screams she released were pleas that rang out across the battlefield: 

“Stop! Oh creators, STOP!”

The blood-thirsty humans were no longer humans to her; rather, they were an amorphous mass, cresting and falling as they carried their prize on their waves, and each of their faces was nondescript and hollow. Elain’s cries were muffled now by their own jubilations and arguments.

“I’VE GOT HER, I’VE GOT HER!! AYE!!! HANDS OFF!”

The wretches grasped and squeezed and pulled to get their share of the prize, and Lavellan's hunters grappled and screamed as they tried to reclaim their Maiden. It was so far away, even though it was only a matter of stretching her legs and moving them, but Sar'een felt the air stuck in her chest. She tried to open her mouth to let it out, let new air in, to just breathe, but nothing worked. Nothing would move but everything moved at once. 

It was panic, and she knew it was, though in the moment there was little she could do to convince herself to end it. Every one of Elain's muffled shrieks was another limb that refused to cooperate, and time stood still as she witnessed the end of her friend.

"Boss! We gotta do something!" 

By the grace of Mythal Herself, Iron Bull's stiff grip on her shoulder woke her from this walking nightmare. Her whole body loosened at once, and she felt her resolve beginning to build itself up again. She could not let this happen to Elain. She refused.

"Lift me up!" Sar'een cried the order to Bull, and he immediately interlaced his fingers together, bending slightly at the knees, creating a makeshift platform for her to use.

She had no room to run, and between casting the barriers and her paralyzing panic, her magic was dangerously tenuous. There were little options she had, and though she did not want to do this, her friend's life was at stake. The Margrave had only brought this upon himself.

Sar'een took a few long strides, pushing her soldiers out of the way as she did, and stepped up into Bull's hand. With a grunt, he forced his arms upwards, launching her over his head and towards her target. She closed her eyes as she felt herself go weightless and concentrated on the Veil. With the last reserves of her well of mana, she allowed herself to touch that construct, tap into the Fade, and become ephemeral. The weightlessness of the air turned into the weightless drift of magical travel, moving her so fast that her limbs ached, but the pain was secondary. She chanted her goal to stay focused. _Save Elain. Save Elain. Save her._

When the step across the Fade ended, only a few heartbeats had passed in the waking world, but the blast of residual energy that left her as she landed mere steps from her target knocked the nearby soldiers off their feet; Inquisition, Lavellan, and Free Army alike. 

There was not much time. They came to quickly, then scrambled on hands and knees to grab onto the pile of fur and armor that lay unmoving on the ground. 

The cold came back in force, ice climbing up Sar'een's veins as she quickly assessed the situation, realizing that she may have came to late. She would not let it freeze her again though. With a lunge, she sprang where Elain laid out on the ground, covering her body as best she could from these vultures. 

But now they grabbed onto her too, ripping and shredding the cloth pieces of her armor, and screaming for her to move or be moved. Sar'een only wrapped her arms around her friend, squeezing her as hard as she could, vowing to not let go until her last breath. 

“Elain! Elain, are you okay?” she screamed as the humans ripped and grabbed for her. Elain murmured incomprehensibly, but still barely moved.

The sharp pain of a blade striking her back signaled the end of her stand sooner rather than later. Cullen and Iron Bull would not get there in time. Vivienne might, if she weren't further away in the ranks, bolstering the vulnerable flank with barriers. It was only her, and she couldn't expect anyone else to save her. 

She did the only thing she could think of.

Whipping her marked hand out from under Elain's slack body, she rose it in the air, stoked the anchor that resided in her palm, and ripped open the Fade itself.

The raw power that poured through her and around her was suffocating. She had never been this close to her target when using the mark before, and she could see now why it was so devastating. The oppressive heaviness and humid atmosphere that she experienced walking in the raw Fade all those months ago returned to her like the lash of a whip; she was overwhelmed by the smell of rotting vegetation punctuated with the ozone quality of a storm, spilling out onto the field of battle. It made her gag, and made her body feel as heavy as lead. 

But Sar'een needed to prevail. She lifted up Elain quickly while the screams of the soldiers and hunters alike haunted her ears. There would be time for apologies later. But not right now. 

Elain was heavy, like her, but she was determined. She grasped her under her arms, pulling her off the ground.

"Come, falon, we need to go," she said to her gently, and Elain responded with a gutteral groan that made the ice that seemed to have frozen her heart melt. She had almost thought the worst. 

“Wha-what’s going on?” Elain asked her, and it seemed she was coming too. She stood up on her own now, still leaning her weight into Sar’een to balance herself, but alive. Alive alive alive.

The deafening screech that emanating across the battlefield threatened to undo her, though. Any tear in the Veil invited spirits and demons to come through, and a battle was no place for them to be. The greed, the anger, the fear, the pride...it all was brought to bear on the fields of war, and spirits who had once been noble in intention could not sustain that form for long in this world. It did not surprise Sar’een when a demon of fear walked through the pulsing rift as if it were an open door.

“I need to fight it, Elain. Can you stand on your own?” she asked her friend swiftly, the magic need to summon her spirit blade pressed against her fingertips.

Elain stood upright, still shaky but grounded for the most part, and drew her gladius from the sheath at her waist, “I can do more than stand.”

There was no time to argue. Sar’een side stepped away from her, summoned her spirit blade, and stepped forward through the Fade again to flank the demon by surprise. She swung her blade wide, slashing at its vulnerable back, making it scream in pain, its spindly legs jutting out from behind quickly jerking forward at her movement. 

It mimicked her movement, phasing through the Fade and reappearing, this time facing her directly, its claws curled and its mouth sneering. She quickly cast barriers over herself and Elain, right before the demon lunged forward to swipe at her. Sar’een parried the blow with her blade, then lunged again in repost, slicing into the demon’s center. Black, sticky tar poured out of it, covering the wet ground with that dark ichor.

Elain took her opening and sliced into the demon from behind as it was vulnerable, a wide long swing that came down its putrid spine. The aspect of fear cried once more before disintegrating into green light, pulled back into the Veil through the rift Sar’een had formed. 

The rift itself shifted, bulging at its center as if stronger magic were trying to push through, and Sar’een knew that if she did not close it soon, something far worse than fear might break through. She threw her marked hand up once again, pressing against the magic of the Fade as it fought to enter this world, and the pain of holding it shot down her arm, into her torso, down her legs. It left her weak, shaking, but she would not allow anything else turn this battle. The Fade was oppressive, but she was stronger. 

With a yell, she pressed it as hard as she had at Adamant, and as the rip sealed, it felt as if her insides were ripping apart in return. The force of the seal sent her flying backwards, along with everyone in the vicinity. She rolled over to where Elain tumbled, determined to keep her safe from these treacherous human hands.

When the bright, blinding green light faded, and her pain began to subside, Sar’een rose from the ground, her lungs aching and her body crying out. Elain helped her up, though she was weakened herself, and it did not escape her notice that she still held her gladius firmly in her hand. Sar’een looked around once the dust had cleared to find the nearest escape route. She would not let this Free Army win. She would not.

But all she could see where ghostly-white faces staring up at her from the ground.

Where they had scrambled to take Elain as their bounty before, now they climbed over each other to get away from her, yellin _g 'It's the Inquisitor! The Herald of Andraste!'_ in fearful, yet nearly reverent tones as they did. The hunters that were woefully caught in the tumult did the same, but they said nothing. She was left in the middle of both armies, wide berth given, with haunted eyes accusing her of things she could not deny.

Sar'een had forgotten that this mark was not something everyone had seen, or that everyone was comfortable with seeing. She had been fighting with it for so long, it all seemed like a part of her. But this part was not one her family or those of the Free Marches were accustomed to. This was new magic, unknown magic; the likes which they had never seen. 

Their fear did not outweigh their piety, however, and those who did not flee flung their weapons to the ground, then their bodies, prostrating themselves before an elf. Sar'een did not fail to see the irony in it, or the embarrassment, but her priority was getting Elain safe. She would use whatever means necessary to see to it. And the means had just laid themselves down at her feet like lemmings.

"The Inquisitor wishes to speak with Margrave Killian!" she shouted over the masses of bodies that surrendered themselves before her. 

The mass chattered and yelled and whimpered in confusion, no one captain sure what to tell their units, but order quickly asserted itself when a rider on a white horse --its mane gleaming and its fur immaculate-- pushed its way through the chaos. 

"Make way! Make way!" screamed several heralds of the rider, all holding the heraldry of Ansburg. Sar'een did not move. She waited for him to come to her. 

When he finally did, the rider dismounted just in front of her, his full body of polished armor clanking awkwardly as he did so. It was emblazoned with Ansburg's heraldry as well, a sickle embroidered with silver thread on burnt orange fabric trimmed with blue silk. It was immaculate, not a speck of dirt on it. It had probably never seen a battle, much less hand to hand combat. A good sign for her should this go southwards.

But the rider unbuckled the longsword at his waist, letting it fall to the ground with a heavy thud, then reached up to take off his helmet. Underneath was a younger man, indistinguishable from most humans but for striking brown eyes and a self-depreciating smile set on his lips. 

"Inquisitor Lavellan, I presume?" the rider gave a short bow, "Margrave Killian."

She said nothing, but stared at him intently, the weight of Elain leaning on her making her angrier by the moment. Her breath came hard and sweat dripped down her brow, her body feeling the burn of the battle. His blade had no blood, and his face was as fresh as morning. A coward, through and through.

Killian gave an awkward cough, then rubbed the back of his head.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to talk the conditions of the Free Army’s surrender."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely satisfied with this, and just do not have the time to rewrite. I hope it's somewhat enjoyable and not too much of a drag.


	55. Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain waits for Sar'een to negotiate, but is forced to face hard truths in the meantime.

The fields between the snaking tributaries of the Minanter had gone quiet for the evening. The dull, orange glow of campfires dotted the landscape, like fireflies in summer, flickering and dancing against the slowly warming night sky. Scouts on the walls of Wycome were still on alert however, knowing that just that morning they had been fighting the same soldiers crowding around the fires, and they tensely patrolled the stone masonry with their eyes wide open to any threats; real or imagined. 

Elain herself sat on the balcony of the room she had called her own since the liberation of the palace, overlooking the deep violet of the sea, her head pounding with a dull ache and her body chilled to the bone. It would not be much longer before she would certainly be expelled from the city, along with her kin, in some backdoor negotiation in order to maintain order and protect the city elves living there. She would not blame Sar’een if it came to that, of course. They had agreed that protecting the elves in Wycome was the priority. She was just angry at the possibility of all her work going to waste.

The battle had left her battered, bruised, but not broken, and most decidedly bitter. She tried not to dwell too much on the closeness in which she had brushed Death. In the moment, it had been terrifying to have what seemed like a hundred hands on her, all ripping and tearing to take a piece, trying to get a slice of the bounty on her head. It was painful, and her voice was hoarse from her screaming, but Sar’een had saved her, and as a reward, the Inquisitor would now have to grovel in front of a nobleman with pristine hands, clean of the blood and dirt of the soldiers that fought for him. That was of more importance now than any brush with her end.

Elain gripped her cloak fastened to her Mantle around her tightly and left the balcony, her thoughts going too dark for her to focus. She paced the floor of her suite, ignoring the chatter of the few friends who kept her company, trying to resolve how she could still win this out. Her boots on the floor pounded in time with her headache, and the taste of blood in her mouth still lingered as she toyed with the deep split on her lip she earned from her ordeal. 

_What is taking so long?_ she thought mutinously, _Sar’een should have resolved this by now._

At least, Elain thought so. It had only been an hour or so since the Inquisitor sat to discuss the... _negotiations_ with the sapling of a Margrave. She had wanted to sit in with the meeting, but the human merchants, Sal and his allies, and even the Inquisition’s advisors warned against allowing the Dalish to attend. The situation was still tenuous, and having the Council there may turn it into a volatile mess. They had settled on having Keeper Deshanna there as a conciliatory measure, but Elain was anything but mollified. 

She despised being left out of the discussions. The rebuilding here had been under her discretion; the order to tear down walls had been from her advice; the reopening of trade and the city’s Bazaar had been spearheaded by her personally. This is as much her child as Heliwr, and she loathed not being able to have a say in the future of her labors.

“Elain, you really should lay back down. You’ve been through a lot today,” Nellia suggested from her spot in a high-backed leather chair next to the mother of pearl-clad fireplace mantle, where the blaze within now warmed the room. She cradled her daughter in her arms, gently stroking her ruddy cheek with the back of her finger, and the simple act tugged at Elain’s heart briefly. She wished Heliwr was there to hold, so she could have something warm and comforting against her. But he was spending his evening with his father, and Elain was only left with her cold anxiety.

“I’m fine,” Elain answered as she continued her frantic pacing up and down the length of the room.

“You don’t look fine,” Sorn interjected. He was sprawled out on a silk fainting couch sitting underneath a garish painting of what she assumed was the former Duke’s ancestor, “You’re wearing a track into the marble floor.”

She stopped abruptly at his observation, “Don’t be dense. The city is in danger of reverting to the oppressive oligarchy it was before we came, and the elves here are afraid they’ll be punished for it. Rest is for those who don’t bear the responsibility of it.”

“At least you’re taking responsibility for it for a change,” he mumbled in response. 

“I could’ve left as soon as my Prey had been recovered. I could’ve announced we had fulfilled our bargain and melted back into the valley with the rest of the hunters, leaving the city elves defenseless against the inevitable retaliation. I never refused the responsibility of this. You’re confusing me with the old guard of the Council.”

Sorn did not reply with a smart quip or sarcastic remark, but rather, he seemed to chew on her words. He stared up at the high ceilings of the room, and she temporarily stopped her pacing to await a response. 

“Sorry,” he finally said, though his sincerity already seemed forced, “We’re all on edge here, but I shouldn’t be fighting you over it. What’s been done is done.”

“Hmph,” Old Bida grunted from her chair placed near the fire, the furs and blankets piled on her shoulders making her look like an ancient witch from legends, “What a poor shape we must be in if bickering is preferable to trusting the Inquisitor! Do none of you children believe she can handle that whelp of a Margrave?”

“He’s human, hahren,” Nellia pointed out quietly, “And she’s an elf, like us. Like all the other elves living here. And everyone knows you can’t trust humans.”

“Then you’ve already been defeated, you faithless girl!”

“We do have faith in her, Bida, but this isn’t a matter of brigands attacking our aravels as we move through Marcher territory,” Elain defended Nellia, “The rulership and transition of power to a Free Marcher city is no small matter. The Inquisition may enjoy prestige and respect in the south, but the Marchers owe her no such loyalty. The reach here --on all of our parts-- is not a trifling matter that can be scattered away with a show of diplomacy or a show of force.”

“You of all people should see beyond that, Maiden. We are only as weak as we allow ourselves to be, and if the Margrave reintroduces the status quo, then it is by no fault but our own,” Bida refused to back down, “Luckily, our First has been through the fires of Orlais. After placing an Emperor on a throne, this Margrave should be a child’s game.”

“Referring to Sar’een’s work in Orlais as luck shows just how unsympathetic towards others you are, hahren,” Elain said dryly, “It was a misfortune --a tragedy-- that she has had to endure all of this. We should _mourn_ that she was tempered by those Orlesian fires, instead of celebrating the battle of wits she must have with a human noble all too ready to let an army slaughter us. This is _not_ a game.”

Instead of responding right away, Bida frowned deeply, then made a show of pulling her trembling hands out from under her heavy pile of blankets and furs. She crossed them mindfully over her lap, and although they shook from years of hard use, the piercing glare the old maiden shot towards her was as steady as a stone. 

“Everything is a game, willful one. A game you have not only partaken in, but gleefully played with a grace to match a magister in the Imperium’s courts, no matter how much you protest. Not everyone enjoys it as you do, but there is no escaping this fact; it’s simply how the world has always functioned,” her voice was dark and nearly hoarse, “Your yearning for our First to be the same tender-hearted baby bird she once was, instead of the shrewd woman she has become so that you may cradle her in your hands, is nothing more than a reflection of your guilt. She has changed, but it’s not for you to decide whether or not what she has become is a ‘ _tragedy_ ’. Do not speak to me of sympathy until you recognize your own motives driven by this childish sense of self-pity.”

“You are cruel, hahren,” Elain breathed out. She was taken back by the sharpness of her words.

“No, not cruel. I’m simply too old to care about things that cannot be changed,” she answered with a sigh, “Have faith in Sar’een. I would’ve never set this in motion if I didn’t believe she was capable of seeing her plans through.”

The wounds inflicted by her sharp words hurt, but she was not wrong. Elain knew this, knew it more deeply than she would ever want to admit. This was all a game; a game of power and prestige, each piece carefully set on the wooden board of life. The plays would assert themselves in her mind, and she would let the bone dice of fate land where they would, seeing her grand schemes come to glorious fruition or fall apart spectacularly. There had been no part in hiding that, especially from Bida.

It was still painful. There was no doubt anymore that Elain’s decisions, however distant and small now, had played a hand in changing who Sar’een was. And Bida was right...she didn’t get to decide if it was for the better. Only Sar’een could do that, and she doubted she would share that with anyone anymore. Their clan’s First now made moves across the board as well, instead of being content in letting others place her where she could be most advantageous. 

Elain was used to pain now. Disappointment and anger were nothing new, and she would weather this as she weathered other storms. The game would go on, and it had no time to care about the hurt being nurtured in her chest.

However, it did not escape Elain’s notice that Bida was playing her own game. Tiny hints had been dropped of pieces she was moving behind a veil, but this was more forthright now; an outright declaration, nearly. _I would’ve never set this in motion…_

“What have you set in motion, hahren?” she questioned her, ignoring the larger message Bida’s lecture meant to get across. Her curiosity won over her pride, for once.

“You mean you don’t already know?” Bida eyed her suspiciously, “Are you that oblivious now?”

“Indulge me,” Elain responded flatly. The nerves of the battle, Sar’een’s negotiations, and now Bida scheming...it was all wearing her patience parchment thin.

“I’m guessing she had something to do with Revas’ sudden promotion,” Sorn cut in dryly, his arm going slack on the couch in boredom as he turned his head to look at the old maiden, “Or rather, something to do with Den’s decision to step down.”

Old Bida’s lips went into a tight seal, signifying she had no intention of acknowledging what Sorn was implying, but Elain would not accept that. It all made too much sense, and was all too much like her. Her heart fell in disappointment at being left in the dust once again, but she was not surprised anymore. Secrets seemed to grow in Wycome as surely as the corrupted lyrium, leaving her ill at the corruption they had left in their wake. 

It was was so much like Bida to hold those secrets too. She would hoard them greedily, then accelerate what she thought were the best plans for the clan, pushing others to move her agenda forward, and then letting the blame that was sure to come fall on their shoulders. She would squeeze every last drop of utility out of her secrets, crushing those who would deem her useless and subduing those who thought they could challenge the authority she wanted so badly to grasp. Elain loved her mentor, but she had no illusions of what she was: a bitter, intrusive old woman who desperately sought to be part of something greater. Bida, of all people, knew what it was to be left behind. She had watched Elain’s own ascension, after all.

“Why?” she asked Bida bluntly, not giving her a chance to lie or deny what she had done. She was sick of this game. The precarious peace she had established here before the arrival of the Free Army was entirely shaken by Bida’s actions, if Sorn’s assumptions were correct. Her meddling was the possible cause of this upheaval of power, and the source of the ache in Elain’s chest that would not leave.

To her credit, Bida noticed her desperation, her need for resolution, and her face softened. She gave a great sigh, with her frail chest rising and falling visibly, then looked up at her.

“It was for your own good,” Bida started, her voice low, “Once the Inquisitor is done taking care of this Margrave, the power will shift dramatically here in Wycome. I see you reaching for it already, girl.”

“I didn’t--”

“Hush!” she interrupted her sharply, “After all these years, you still think I’m blind! I could see it, and so could Den. And your father. And your brother. Vhannas would prefer to see you disgraced and separated from the Banal’ras so he can make you his darling favorite again, and Keeper Paeris fancies that power you are clawing at for himself. The struggle would’ve ended in a stalemate, with the clan and the city elves as the innocent bystanders to your family’s destructive ambition.”

“That’s not fair Bida!” she defended herself, though part of her silently questioned the truth of the statement.

“Quiet yourself or else I will withhold what I’ve done and turn my back on you,” she warned Elain, but continued, “Yes, you and your family are a parasite on the halla, sucking the life of everything around you for your own gain. Denying this doesn’t make this any less true. But of the three, you are the one with _potential_ to be more. I see it. I have always seen it. I saw it in the little girl who bent even the most rigid leaders to her whims. I saw it in the young woman who faced the Vimmarks on that cold autumn day and walked into the unknown without fear. I saw it when you faltered under the weight of the Mantle, only to rally yourself and find the strength to hold it with dignity and authority. I have seen that potential and nurtured it and blew my own life into it to watch you grow and bloom. That potential is on the cusp of realization, the very precipice of transformation, if you’d only allow it.”

Bida looked down on the floor, but went on, “But you sabotage yourself. You allowed your heart to cloud your mind, you broke oaths sacred to our kin, you pushed away anyone who tried to steer you towards a better path, and you sought to eliminate anything that threatened what you consider your birthright...even those who nurtured you. Uplifted you. Devoted themselves to you. _Loved you_. They have been nothing but pawns in your game, and any potential that shines inside of your soul has been darkened by the vanity that lies there as well. Everything you have done has been an elaborate mechanism to fuel your ego, and it is only now, after all those years, have you finally reaped those poisoned fields. _You_ have been your own undoing, and it has pained me to see it.”

Elain took two steps backwards, and very slowly, seated herself on the corner of the bed in the center of the room. Her legs felt as if they would fail and give out under her, and the oppressive thoughts that hounded her now screamed in her ears, making them ring. Her eyes filled with tears at her mentor’s words, and as her lip began to tremble, she brought a shaky hand to the clasp that kept her Mantle in place.

“I know this is difficult to hear, da’len. All your life has been victory after victory, handed to you on a platter of gold, and you struggle with the loss now that your actions have caught up to you. But you will lose so much more if you continue down this path. And I cannot see it. I refuse to watch it happen. I am an old, bitter woman, yes, but you are …”

Bida paused, placing the gnarled fingers of her hand on her chest, and they trembled even more than Elain’s, “You are the closest thing to my own child that I will have in this life. I have poured so much into you, hoping to see you reach that potential, and it would be a tragedy to see it all come down. Your failure is my failure. Your pride is my pride. Your loss is my loss. Everything I have done, I have done for you.”

The tears fell freely from Elain’s eyes now, and her hand clutched the clasp of the Mantle so tightly, she knew it would bleed. The Mantle would not care. It was used to blood, destruction, pain. And it felt heavier than it had ever felt in all the years she had worn it. 

“So yes, I did speak with Den and yes, I demanded him to step down before he wanted to. He may never have found the stomach to do so otherwise. The boy will ascend, and you will finally have something to ground you, to challenge you, to force that darkness that resides in your soul to come into the light, and to make you learn what it is to have humility. You have no use for accomplices bound to your will anymore. It has stunted you, held you back from reaching that potential that lies therein. Now you must learn to compromise, to give in to opinions that are --and have always been-- as valid as yours. It is the only way that you can end this with your authority --and your dignity-- intact. Reach for it, Elain. Do not hold back any longer for fear of losing all you have fought for. You will regret it for the rest of your life if you do.”

The last words were spoken as soft as a whisper, and they fell into Elain's ears as quietly as the tears streamed down her face. She was unable to speak, unable to give voice to the doubt and fear that had made a home in her heart, and she felt paralyzed for it. Bida was asking her to give up more than she was comfortable with. 

_No._ She was asking for even more than that. And Elain did not know if she was capable of giving it. To let it all go and do this on her own, to release the fear that hounded her, haunted her, and to step away from the only path she had ever known. It was too much. It was far too much.

Nellia, seeing her distress, rose from her chair, her baby still in her arms, and walked over to Elain. She sat on the bed next to her and wrapped one of her arms around her shoulder, then leaned her head against hers.

"It's okay," she whispered in consolation, "It's okay to just be Elain. We won't love you any less."

Elain buried her face in her friend's shoulder and let herself grieve. She wept for all the loss she endured, for all the pain she had been through, for all the deception, the greed, the terrible hunger inside her that could never be sated, and then...then she wept for Nellia. For the steadfast friend who begged her to let her husband stay to see the birth of their child, and for her cold refusal that left the poor girl alone and frightened. She wept for Sar'een, who she had purposefully used to drive a point home to her brother and suffered dearly for it. She wept for Bida, and for Den, and for Deshanna, and Sohta, and for everyone who had ever helped her and who she so callously shut down at every opportunity she could benefit from. She wept for them all, for all the malice she had sown, and for all the mistakes she had made, for all the people who had supported her and who were in turn punished by her ambition.

And after what seemed like a lifetime, her tears were spent. She kissed Nellia on her cheek to thank her for her comfort, and got up from her seat on the bed. She walked to a copper basin near the bedside filled with water and stared at it longingly. The water was as clear as a summer sky, as clear as glass, and she could see the intricate mosaic work that had been lovingly crafted into the bottom of the basin. It was unlike the rest of the palace with its sea motifs and pearls. Instead, it was a plain, unassuming image of a flower blooming; a sign of spring, of life, of beginnings. She touched the surface of the water, as if she could stroke the velvety yellow petals of the flower, and the crystalline waters now reflected her face instead. They wavered under the disturbance, and the familiar features of her visage looked distorted. Warped. _Corrupted._

With trembling hands, she cupped the water and slowly brought it to her face, splashing it over her skin. It was cold and bracing, but it did not deter her from continuing. She splashed it up over and over again with her cupped hands, cleansing that distorted reflection of its corruption. Elain washed away the tears, the grief, the pain, and all the terrible things she held onto for the sake of comfort. She baptized herself in those healing waters. Handful after handful, gasping breath after gasping breath, until her face was numb and her heart was numb and her mind was numb of the guilt weighing upon herself. The cold waters washed it all away and left her born anew. 

She turned back towards her small group of friends once she had finished, her skin tingling and her soul ready. Nellia stared up at her from the bed, tears in her own tears glittering in her eyes and staining her face. Sorn watched her carefully from the edge of the fainting couch, his elbows set upon his knees, and his face a careful mask. Bida's back was against her, but she didn't need to she her face to know what to expect.

It would be impassive, and it would be tired. It would be weary and wizened, and her mouth would be resting in a frown. The old maiden was never one to be comfortable with Elain's emotional purging, but in this instance, Elain could not let it go on as if nothing happened.

She walked back around Bida's chair, then with all the gratefulness she could muster, she kneeled down in front of her, her eyes level to Bida's knees.

"Thank you, hahren," she said humbly, "For everything."

"Do not thank me, girl. _Do_ something with it."

Bida snapped her fingers at Nellia after giving her order, and Nellia sprung from the bed to help her. 

"I'm going to retire for the evening. All this politicking has left me exhausted," she explained flatly, then pointed her gaze towards Sorn, "It should go without saying that you are not to misconstrue what happened here as me withdrawing my support from the Maiden. Tell your Warlord that I have no intention of doing so, either."

"Yes, hahren," he replied gravely. 

"Good. Now come with me," she ordered him, "The Maiden needs some time to compose herself before the Inquisitor finishes her negotiations." But before they left her alone with her thoughts, Bida looked over her shoulder towards her once more.

“Trust the Inquisitor. She will see us through, no matter the cost.”

Without a further word, the trio left the grand suite, leaving Elain alone, her knees still on the hard marble floor, her eyes still downcast, and her soul crying for something that was just beyond reach. She felt as though she was in the Black Forest, slowed by the dark tar and pain that always obstructed her path, forever trying to escape that danger but always coming up short. Here she was, wounded again, desperately trying to save herself. But this time her foe was her own actions. Her own words. Her own will. 

In that moment, Elain began to understand that her greatest enemy had always been herself. 


	56. Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offer is made to save Wycome, and Elain finds temptation hard to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is incredibly long, but also pretty necessary. I really hope it's enjoyable.

The night passed slowly while Sar’een held court with the Margrave of Ansburg. The moon rose, bright and yellow in the spring sky, and began its steady climb across the heavens. The stars trailed it, like glittering specks of pollen on the wind, and there was an artificial sense of calm from that quiet journey. Elain knew it was a false peace. What did the moon and stars care for the antics of mortals, after all? They acted as they always had, and as they always would, while she shivered in worry over the edge of revolution.

She had calmed herself after her emotional purging, managed to reduce the swelling in her eyes from her tears, and sat poised and at ready for whatever news would come of this meeting with the Margrave. She waited outside the elegant private library of the former Duke, seated on a bench adorned with the ever-present sea life that Wycome so loved. The wooden legs were carved to resemble dolphins, their tails balancing the piece, and the light blue brocade that lined the bench cushion had silver embroidery depicting the fishermen that brought their bounty to the docks every evening. 

Another falsity that lulled the people who enjoyed the artistry into a sense of security. The cushion was welcoming, the craftsmanship spoke of the pride of the city’s culture, and it invited whoever should happen upon it to take in every detail. The bench was a distraction, as were the high ceilings and marble spires, and the precisely placed pearls that adorned nearly everything in the Nacre Palace. It was meant to portray wealth, happiness prosperity, but in those dark hours, all it conjured in Elain was a sense of futility. The palace was like the moon, moved by some untenable force, while the occupants fought and gnashed teeth over who should rule from its pearl-encrusted walls.

Still, she waited patiently as the night progressed, and was rewarded when the doors to the grand library finally opened. There were voices that rose from within immediately. What were murmurs behind closed walls were now loud and clear, and obviously meant to be heard.

"I hope you can come to a decision by the morning. I will not see the city suffer more than it has."

"I will, Margrave." It was Sar'een's voice. "So long as you remember that none of your nobles are equipped to deal with the red lyrium in the waters here."

"I haven't forgotten," the Margrave replied in annoyance, then burst through the wide doors of the library. He was flanked by a large entourage, and none of them looked like soldiers. They wore ornate fabrics, heavy jewels, and the cosmetics on their faces were applied with an expert hand. They chattered furiously at the Margrave as they made their way down the hall, the air behind them left in a cloud of perfume. It made Elain’s nose itch, and she found herself annoyed by the flock of nobles who swarmed around the palace halls now, as if they were owed some part of it and were inconvenienced by her kin and the Inquisition’s presence. 

She stood from her seat on the bench and made the short walk through the grand doors of the library. Sar’een was seated inside behind a large, cedar desk. Her advisors whispered into her ears, but Elain could see that a look of gloom had settled over her friend’s face. She looked tired, and defeated, and drained of her all her energy. The dark circles under her eyes were pronounced, and her skin was even paler than usual. The course of events in Wycome had taken its toll on Sar’een.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Deshanna stand up from a plush velvet couch on her right where she and Sal were both seated, and hurried over to her in a flurry of robes and worried looks. Sal followed closely behind, but he seemed angry, rather than worried. Deshanna grabbed onto Elain’s wrist gently, and led her to the side of the room.

“Thank the Creators you’re here,” she whispered to her, “Margrave Killian is demanding the Inquisitor to place a noble of his choosing on the throne of Wycome. Sar’een has refused and will not budge from her plans. I’m afraid he will call off the negotiations and attack the city again if a compromise cannot be reached.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Deshanna glanced over her shoulder at Sar’een, who was now in a heated conversation with her spymaster, “Talk to her. See if you can get her to change her mind. I fear for both our clan and the residents here if she cannot be swayed.”

Elain shrugged, “Why should she be? We haven’t worked this hard and fought this long to see the Margrave revert everything to how it was before.”

“See? She gets it,” Sal joined in the whispering, “Don’t know why you’re frettin’ so hard over it.”

“Elain, please,” she begged her, tightening her grip on her wrist, ignoring Sal, “This could start a war, and I will not have any more blood on my hands. There _must_ be a better solution.”

“There’s no need for whispering, Keeper. I know you disapprove of my stance,” Sar’een’s voice rose over the conversation, “But my priority has always been the safety of the elves living here. I saw firsthand the aftermath of the purging of Halamshiral. There will be no smoking ruins where the alienage once was in Wycome.”

“I agree,” Elain said, turning from Deshanna and approaching the great cedar desk, “I doubt the Margrave has any intention of actually handing over authority to the Inquisition. His show of surrender was for the Free Army soldiers, not himself.”

“Damn straight it was,” Sal agreed, and Deshanna merely sighed at her defeat. She sat back down, her face in her hand, another battle lost to her inability to be anything more than lukewarm in her opinions. Elain would feel sorry for her if it hadn’t been a prison of her own making. Now was not the time to start sprouting a moral compass. She should’ve been more firm years ago.

"I have no doubts about Killian's intentions. He did not come here to lose," Sar'een said, waving her hand to dismiss her advisors standing on either side of her, "And any ground he gives to the elves will be seen as a loss, no matter what the circumstances."

"Which is why we need to station soldiers here in Wycome on a permanent basis," Sar'een's commander interjected, ignoring her dismissal, "If the nobility in the Free Marches don't understand their own hand in this, then I say we leave a lingering presence as a reminder."

"You mean you want an occupation of the city," the Inquisition's spymaster did not leave either, and instead, confronted the commander, "You'd have the people who live here go from one oppressive boot to another."

"I'd hardly call the Inquisition ' _oppressive_ ', Leliana," he responded dryly, but the spymaster tightened her lips at the remark.

"You refused to see the Templar Order as oppressive as well, but how many mage bodies lay in unmarked graves because of their Templar overseers?" Leliana asked him, but did not stop to allow him to answer, "How much blood must the elves here shed here before it's enough? How many more of their dead must they bury for them to have a voice in their fate? What is the breaking point of pain that you want to see before these people have a say in what happens in Wycome?"

"I...it's not...We're not..." the commander fumbled over his words, but before he could gather his thoughts, Sar'een raised a stiff hand in the air.

"I've heard both your concerns and will take them to heart," she said firmly, "But I need to talk to my kin before I decide anything. Please, go resume your duties in the city and wait for me to find the course we must take to keep Wycome and its inhabitants safe."

"Yes, Inquisitor," Leliana said, and both she and the commander gave a short bow before walking around the large cedar desk and making their way out of the room. 

But when they opened the great blue doors that would lead them outward, a visitor stood on the other side, hand reaching for the door handle, his brow raised in surprise at the exiting advisors.

"What do you want, Revas?" Sar'een called out to him from her place at the desk. Her advisors did not hesitate, but rather, walked around him and separated down the hallway. Sar'een stared at him, waiting for an answer. Elain could nearly feel the annoyance building up in the Inquisitor’s body.

"I wanted to discuss the state of the elven forces in the city," he replied, stepping into the room and shutting the doors behind him, "I have concerns I thought you might want to address."

“I have bigger things to worry about than your meddling, Revas,” Sar’een said tiredly, but made no move to excuse him from the library. 

Revas was unmoved by Sar’een’s refusal to hear his complaints and strode into the library confidently, “It’s not ‘ _meddling_ ’. The Ethinan are reporting a lot of anxiety and mistrust among the elven forces. They’re uneasy with this many humans armed and sitting on Wycome’s doorsteps.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Sar’een answered him, and her tiredness only seemed to grow more pronounced, “Getting the Free Army out of the Minanter tributaries is my top priority, but I can’t do that without knowing there will be a peaceful transition of power here. I can hardly afford an armed rebellion if the residents of the city do not approve of their new leadership.”

"That's exactly what you'll end up with if you don't address this," he urged her, "There's already whispers of secret plans to preserve the city. The Guild is desperate to keep their people alive."

"Don't have to tell us that, son," Sal interrupted him, then looked towards Sar'een, "You already know all about it, Inquisitor, but it's worse than you can imagine. My people ain't gonna settle for another noble pot of piss shitting up their lives. They're already sharpening their daggers."

"And the Dalish forces are feeling caged. Cornered. Backed up against a wall," Revas cut back in, adding weight to Sal's claims, "You know we're not used to being behind walls this long. They're afraid of what it all means. And fear makes them do desperate shit. If the Guild offers them an out, they're going to take it."

"You can't control your forces?" Sar'een asked him incredulously. Revas shook his head slowly.

"Trust me; you don't want me controlling them right now. I'm not inclined to disagree with what they're feeling."

The uneasiness Elain had been harboring that had kept her silent started to weaken, only for a new one to take its place when Sar'een leaned back in the leather chair at the desk and steepled her fingers on her chin. 

Revas had made a mistake.

An amateur mistake in negotiations, one in which she was nearly surprised he would stumble into. But then again, he was never one for the diplomatic discussions. Shem'assan was a man of action, whose first instinct was always to stand at the forefront of a plan. Elain had used it to her advantage quite successfully, but gone unchecked, Revas did not know how to utilize that brashness. 

Time had tempered it, honed it, but it could not transform him into a new person. He was still _Shem’assan_ , and he had not thought his words through. Now, Sar'een would see through anything he suggested.

"Are you a danger to my plans here, Revas?" Sar'een asked him, "Are you coordinating a rebellion, in the event I am unable to enact the change your mismatched fighters want?"

He went to open his mouth in response, but she held her hand up, "Don't answer that. I'm not willing to entertain empty words and even emptier support. The situation here is tenuous, yes, but we have options. I will not give Wycome up without a fight."

Keeper Deshanna was the one who answered her, "We trust you want the best, da'len, but I'm frightened. The Guild and our hunters aren't the only ones involved. There are many more who cannot fight. They stand to lose everything if you anger the Margrave. Their families, their friends, their very lives...that's what is at stake here."

Sar'een sighed deeply, "I know, I know. This isn't what I had hoped it would come down to, but I cannot afford to have rogue elements working against me either." She looked up towards Revas again, addressing him directly, "Can I trust you to lead the hunters and enforce what I decide?"

"Depends on what you decide," he shrugged, "But I don't want to see this fail. I've been through so much shit in this nightmare city, all I want to do is have clean air in my lungs again. So if you want to help get this sorted out, I'm not going to say no."

"Everytime I look at my reflection, I see the reminder of the last time I tried to help you," she responded dryly and brought a solitary finger to the scar than ran vertically over her mouth, "But for now, we need to work together to get this resolved. Any weakness we show will just be exploited by the Margrave. My worries about your ability to keep yourself reigned in will have to wait."

"Agreed," Elain finally spoke up, hoping to diffuse the tension that was building between Sar’een and Revas, "Cooperation will be key in resolving this. If we aren't on a united front, then any plan you put forward will fall apart. You have my support."

Sal nodded in agreement with her declaration, and so did Revas, albeit tentatively. But Deshanna merely sighed and hugged her arms close to her chest.

"I'm afraid, Sar’een. This will not end well if we reach too far--"

A hard knock sounded on the great blue door to the library, interrupting their discussion. It echoed through the air, bouncing off the high ceilings, and sending a chill down Elain's spine. This all felt so ominous. 

"Come in," Sar'een invited the unexpected guest. 

The doors swung open, and on the other side was a middle-aged woman, tall and poised, her gray hair braided immaculately, and her pale yellow hoop-gown embroidered with cream-colored lace. Her shoes made a loud _clack clack clack_ noise as she strode confidently across the marble floor. Following close behind her, a dwarf; broad shouldered and gray hair as well, with a dark green velvet tunic and long, heavy golden medallions falling over his chest. 

They made their way across the room swiftly, and though Elain did not know who the dwarf man was, she was quite familiar with the woman. With that knowledge also came an anxious worm curling in her stomach. 

"Lady Volant," Elain greeted her jovially, despite that uneasy feeling, "What a pleasure to see you at this hour."

"It is always a joy to see you, Lady Maiden," she responded happily, her smile luminous and wide, though not warm enough to ease the fear that was chasing Elain. 

The Lady Volant stopped briefly in front of Sar'een's cedar desk and gave a quick bow. The dwarf did the same, though not with nearly the grace as his escort.

"And what incredible luck that I may be in the presence of my benevolent benefactor," Volant straightened herself, then settled herself in a plush chair opposite of Sar'een at the desk, "I'm certain Ambassador Montilyet mentioned me, yes?"

Sar'een nodded slowly, "Of course. She keeps me well-informed. Thank you for your services here in Wycome, Lady Volant. Your information was crucial in claiming the city from its oppressors."

Volant laughed brightly at the compliment, "You are very welcome, of course, but what a generous remark! I merely wrote a few letters to a dear friend of the DesJardins."

"Regardless, the Inquisition is in your debt for your deeds," Sar'een assured her, then leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the desk, "To what do we owe the honor of your presence tonight?"

"Why, business of course," Volant's smile grew all the wider and she placed a gentle hand on her dwarf accomplice, "My friend and I...well, we have quite an offer to propose."

"What kind of offer?" Revas cut in bluntly, and Elain closed her eyes briefly at his ineptitude. This was a negotiation, not an interrogation. It didn’t surprise her that he couldn’t gauge the difference.

Lady Volant turned her attention towards him, her brows lowered and her smile turned mocking, "The kind that isn't for your ears, _mon cher._ A lady does not spill all her secrets to every stranger she meets.”

“Whose ears is it for then, exactly?” Sar’een questioned her, but the Lady Volant did not turn her gaze from Revas.

“For those who can do something with it, naturally,” her voice was lilting and sounded like a delicate pipe, each word a beautiful note. Orlesians made even speaking into a artful dance, “And somehow, I assume the intricacies of such an offer would be lost on a...,” she trailed off and bit her lip as she looked for the word, “Hmm.. _._ a _chasseur,_ such as him _._ ”

“ _Seth’lin shemlen,_ ” Revas sneered at her, but Lady Volant did not drop her mocking gaze. 

“Such rudeness!” she feigned offense, though Elain was sure she had dealt with her fair share of fumbling courtesans in Orlais, “One hopes the Inquisition prefers a less barbaric tone to obtain peace over a city. Or is the art of negotiation truly dead in the Free Marches?”

“He was just leaving,” Sar’een replied flatly, staring daggers at Revas as she did so, but he was not budging. 

“No, I’m not.”

A tense standoff seemed to be brewing in that library, a thread pulled taut until it seemed it might break. Elain set her fingers against her brow in exasperation. Her former Banal’ras was anything but delicate, but this was inexcusable. There was no reason to distrust Lady Volant, and drawing out the answers required to find a peaceful solution to this quagmire would require more than just making threats.

“That wasn’t a question,” Sar’een’s patience seemed to be pulled to a breaking point along with the tension, but it was enough to halt the battle of wills Revas and Lady Volant were engaging in. They both looked at her, Lady Volant apologetically and Revas angrily, but the Inquisitor didn’t seem to care for either of their antics. 

“If you’re going to talk with this shem about the future of the city, I want to be here,” Revas argued with her, “I _need_ to be here.”

“You _need_ to leave, or I will make you leave,” she threatened him, that ever-patient girl they all once knew entirely gone. But threats were always a challenge to Revas, and Elain balked at them both letting their long grudges interrupt the potential progress that could be made. She had to do something.

“Please,” Elain spoke softly, the placation slipped over her tongue like the finest velvet, “Remember how important it is for us to work together. This pettiness is unbecoming in the challenges we need to face.”

She looked between them, and Sar’een nodded her head slowly, though the sour look on her face did not disappear. Revas appeared unchanged; all red faced from him allowing his anger to brew. What a mess.

“Inquisitor, I know you are perfectly capable of handling this without our input, but perhaps having the interim Warlord here would not be harmful,” she pointed out gently, “He does, after all, have a finger on the pulse of the forces within the city. Not even I know the mood of the hunters as well as he does. His opinion could give us insight we would otherwise miss.”

“As long as he can refrain from insulting our guests...” Sar’een relented, but the tension she held in her body was still compacted tightly. 

“I’ll make due,” Revas responded tartly, then grappled onto the leg of a nearby chair with his booted-foot and pulled it closer to the desk. He sat down in a foul mood, his obvious impatience and anger at the situation all too clear to everyone in the room. It was not ideal, but Elain knew they couldn’t afford to have him excluded from these talks. His sway over the hunters and Yemet was quite real.

“So many ears for a delicate matter such as this!” Lady Volant remarked, “Are you quite sure this is prudent?”

“The future of the city is something we are taking quite seriously, my Lady,” Elain responded gravely, “And everyone here has been directly involved with moving towards independence from the nobility since our arrival. Any information you have to offer can be shared in front of them. I trust them all implicitly.”

It was a lie, but she hoped it seemed believable to the Orlesian noblewoman. Or at least to her dwarf companion. There was no doubt Volant had brought him along for an important reason.

“I agree with the Maiden,” Sar’een interjected, “Despite the...disagreement between the interim Warlord and I, everyone here knows the stakes and have no illusions about our accountability. Please, tell us what you want to negotiate.”

Lady Volant tilted her head slightly as if to nod, then smiled again, “A little warmth before business is always considered polite. Though, I suppose the rules of etiquette are not as closely administered this far north, yes? We will just have to make pastries from potatoes, as they say in Jadar.”

She motioned gracefully towards the dwarf sitting next to her, who had been silent during the awkward opening to the meeting, but listening closely all the same, “May I introduce Ser Coban Davri, second son of Deshyr Ogham Davri, Trade Acquisition Specialist for the House Davri, and a Senior Merchant in the Merchant Guild.”

“Nice to meet you,” Coban said gruffly. 

“Likewise, Ser Coban,” Sar’een replied politely, “I’m eager to listen to what you and Lady Volant would like to offer.”

“I don’t make ‘ _offers_ ’. I make deals,” he corrected her, “Give and take. Push and shove. You throw in something of value, and I throw you something back. See the difference?”

“Of course,” the Inquisitor responded coolly, “And I didn’t even need the condescension to understand.”

“Right. Because we’ve all been so polite and accommodating so far.”

“The city has been through the ass end of the void and back. We got a responsibility to have everyone walk away happy, and you come in here thinkin’ you’re gonna solve all our problems and fill your pockets too. Give us one good Maker damned reason to be accomodatin’,” Sal snapped at Coban, his patience grown just as thin as everyone else’s. This whole meeting was degrading, and quickly. 

Elain cleared her throat, hoping to gain some semblance of control.

“Believe me, Ser Coban, I understand the difference between offers and deals quite well,” she started, speaking directly to the dwarf to appeal to the sense of negotiation she was sure was inherent in him due to his status, “Which is why we are so on edge here. Throughout our history, elves usually end up on the poor end of their deals, even when the initial conditions seemed fair and agreeable. Your people have the luxury of trusting outsiders and the contracts they make. We, sadly, do not.”

“Not my fault you got a shit bargain out of the Dales, but I see your point,” Coban relented and reclined comfortably in his high-backed chair, “Alright. Let’s try this again.”

He pointed squarely at Elain, his well-manicured nails a sign of his wealth. It did not intimidate her in the slightest.

“You, Lady Maiden, have something I want,” he stated, his finger never wavering, “And I believe I have something you would like in exchange for it. If we can hammer out something, I think we can both walk out of Wycome better than before.”

“You truly believe that?” she asked wryly, but refrained herself from leaning forward in interest. Letting him think she was eager to see what he wanted would be a mistake. 

“Yeah. So why don’t we just let bygones be bygones, start over, and see what we can salvage here?”

Elain looked to her fellows, attempting to quickly assess their take on the dwarf. They all seemed to be listening intently and --hopefully-- open to whatever Coban had to say. Things would go much easier if they were.

“Perhaps we did get off on the wrong foot, Ser Coban. But the Maiden is right: we’ve been under a lot of pressure, and the specter of the battle today still hangs over us,” Sar’een said politely, “But I would like to start over as well. Lady Volant was kind enough to bring you here and introduce you, so it’s only right I reciprocate it.”

Sar’een turned her head towards the left, “Here is Clan Lavellan’s Keeper, Deshanna. To her left, Sal of the alienage. To my right, the Maiden of the Hunt, and next to you,the acting Warlord of Clan Lavellan.”

“Heard of you, Sal,” Coban acknowledged, “Rhian and the other merchants have been talking you up something fierce.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sal said under his breath. 

“All good things, no worries about that. Not many elves willing to involve the Carta and Coterie to get shit done, especially in a city with a Thieves’ Guild chapter. But you and Lady Maiden turned this mess around. Take credit where it’s due.”

“Thanks, I guess,” he answered uncomfortably. Sal never appeared to enjoy receiving the rewards of his hard work. It had humbled him to the merchants and humans in the city, but Elain worried about the responsibility he put on himself.

However, while Sal was all too eager to shift attention away from his deeds, Elain was more than happy to discuss hers, “There is no doubt Wycome’s recovery has been a challenge, and one that is far from over. Sal’s leadership has been integral, and working with him has been one of the few pleasures I’ve received since arriving.”

Lady Volant leaned forward slowly, “So you would say that all the factions of the city are working well together? Coterie, Carta, Thieves’ Guild? Are they singing in harmony?”

Sal rubbed his temples at the question, “Best as a lot like them can work together, I suppose. Carta moves the most, Coterie keeps the rents low but doesn’t have a huge presence, and Thieves are actin’ as the city guards and keepin’ the other two in check until someone’s ass is sitting on the Duke’s throne.”

“And is it sustainable?” Volant questioned deeper.

“Ha!” he laughed, “It’ll only last as long as not having a Duke lasts. Soon as one of Margrave’s lackey’s is sittin’ in the Nacre Palace, we’re back at the beginning.”

“Killian doesn’t have a foot to stand on,” Coban said, waving off Sal’s concern, “His entire army thinks the Inquisitor is Andraste herself, and his _‘friends’_ are sycophants who’ll sway with wherever the coins blow. And guess who decides where all that gold is gonna drop?”

“You think whoever the merchants back is the one Killian and his nobles will accept?” Sar’een posed the idea, and it resonated with Elain. The city ran on its trade; from the main roads that ran west with the Minanter, to the sea port that opened up Rivain to the rest of the Free Marches, there was no doubt Wycome was situated ideally for mercantile pursuits. If they were to get the Merchants’ Guild and the human merchants to support their choice of ruler...well, the possibilities were infinitely tempting. 

“Not at all. What I’m saying is that you don’t _need_ Killian and his nobles’ acceptance,” Coban twirled his finger through his beard as he explained, “The Duke was never the one who made the city run here, alright? He was funded and supported by incredibly wealthy families of nobles who capitalized on the trade that ran through the Bazaar. Unlucky for them though, can’t take that coin with you when you die. Instead of ousting the Duke when they had the chance, they got sick along with the rest of the city, and no amount of wealth makes you immune to that corruption.”

“It was terribly sad, really,” Lady Volant said quietly, “Entire bloodlines completely wiped out, lost to madness and decay.”

“Sad for them, but good for us,” Coban reminded her, “Competition has narrowed significantly, and House Davri has a stranglehold on the trade in the Bazaar now. As soon as matters here are settled, we’ll be able to open up routes on the Minanter and move goods north to Antiva and west to Nevarra. Lots of gold will be coming into Wycome. Lots.”

“Then what do you need us for?” Sal asked sharply, “Sounds like you got this whole thing figured out.”

“Lots of gold means a big target,” Revas surmised from Coban’s explanation, “Bandits and thieves on the main roads are going to see it and take advantage of it even more than they do now. You need a ruler on the throne to handle protection.”

Coban shrugged, “Doesn’t every city? That’s what being a leader all comes down to: someone who can protect the roads, protect the trade, and protect the livelihood of the people. Without a leader, there’s no guard. And if there’s no guard, caravans are vulnerable. Don’t think Killian doesn’t know that too. He wants to split up the Ansburg Guard and reinforce it with floaters in the Free Army. Then he takes his protection fee from the puppet Duke he wants to put on the throne and a percentage of the profits from the trade. A hefty percentage.”

“And? Seems to be just how business is run in this place,” Revas dismissed him, “No matter who’s sitting on the throne, they’ll be a puppet.”

“Not if it’s an elf.”

The room went utterly silent at Sar’een’s words, and Elain felt a chill run up her spine. Finally, the plans she had harbored and hoped for were spoken, given life, and there was a beautiful sense of vindication that washed over her. She had been on the same line of thought the Inquisitor had been on all along, and everything she had done was justified now. This is was her friend had wanted. This is what she had done to save Wycome. This is what her endgame was. Elain had come to the right conclusions after all.

Now, it was only a matter of nailing the boards together. 

“That’s the heart of the matter, yes?” Lady Volant finally spoke, breaking the contemplative silence, “A city ruled by an elf seems the natural choice for the Inquisitor, but the Margrave of Ansburg’s actions may threaten your plans.”

“Yes,” Sar’een admitted.

“But if if the esteemed Ser Coban Davri were to throw his weight behind your choice, as well as the Merchant’s Guild and all affiliated traders within the city and throughout the Free Marches...threats seem much more hollow.”

“Which brings us back to the start,” Sar’een answered her immediately, “What is it exactly that you want?”

Coban chuckled, “Stability, contracts, and lots of gold.”

“But you stand to get that in any case, Ser Davri. There must be something else you think we can offer you,” Elain pointed out, and at her remark, the dwarf’s face grew as hard as stone.

He leaned forward in his chair and dropped his voice, “Not some _thing_. Some _one_.”

Lady Volant smiled warmly at his answer, her eyes falling on Elain, and in that moment, she knew exactly the price. Previous deals and secret communications were racing to catch up to her, and the ace in her sleeve she’d been holding onto was finally going to be forced to be played. 

She blanched at the thought. Elain had not told her friends and allies of her previous deal with Volant, and she had hoped in holding that secret, she could save herself, should the need arise. It burned in her gut at the selfishness of it now. Harboring secrets, keeping those closest to her in the dark, moving pieces silently so that she may gain all the more power without them to get in the way...had she truly done all these things? Had she truly thought they would never be brought to light? Elain felt sick from the anxious worm in her stomach, and even sicker at the thought of how she had justified all this in her own mind. Things she had been so sure about now seemed uncertain and petty, and the grasp of authority she had closed into her fist so tightly cut into her vulnerable hand.

It was too late for regrets now. She had made the deal with Lady Volant, fully understanding the implications, and her corrupted fields were ready to harvest. The fruit that they bore would poison everyone who had ever offered her loyalty in return for the flesh.

“When I learned of the Margrave of Ansburg marching with the Free Army on Wycome, and that the Inquisition would meet him on the field, I sought Coban out personally,” Lady Volant started, all natural charm and ease, as if she wasn’t about to sever the ties Elain had spent years cultivating,”I knew that should the elves here succeed in battle, they would need support to stand against the Margrave’s political aspirations. Wycome is not a city without value, after all.”

The rest of the group listened on intently as fear burrowed in Elain’s mind, but Lady Volant continued, “I also knew that the Lady Maiden had something of incomprehensible value to Ser Coban, and I knew that based on a conversation we had, she might be willing to offload a promised debt so that she could, shall we say, position herself to reap the largest benefits.”

Volant smiled widely as she said the last words, a jest buried under an explaination. She was leaving Elain no choice but to comply with whatever she and the dwarf had cooked up. If Elain did not, she knew Volant would not forget that debt. No matter how altruistic they seemed, people like her did not earn their prestige and power by sitting idle while others reached beyond them. Elain should know; she was all too happy to snap her jaws around that proverbial bone thrown to her. 

“Maiden,” Sar’een said quietly, slowly, “What have you done?”

She swallowed deeply, knowing she could not extend this any longer. It was time to face the consequences.

“I made a deal previously with Lady Volant,” she explained calmly, hoping it would sustain the tone of the conversation, “Information for the possibility of trade contracts, should it come into my hands. The information was important enough for me to agree to the terms.”

“The information was on a dwarf named Harik Davri,” Coban added, “Harik Davri of House Davri. First son of Deshyr Ogham Davri. Scion of the House Davri, heir to Ogham’s empire, and my older brother…”

He paused for effect, then glared at Elain with all the intensity of a boar who had set its sight on a hunter to gore.

“... But your clan would know him as _Lokka_.”

“Creators…” Deshanna whispered, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock. 

Of course the clan would know his name. Lokka had been a bane, snatching away their scouts in the night, selling them off to who knows where. He was the reason Donovan attacked them at Minanter, the reason they came to this city. They would know his name, and then know the grave disservice Elain had done to her people by hiding him.

“You knew about Lokka?” Revas asked her directly from across the desk that separated them, “You knew about him this _whole time_?” His voice strained against the anger growing in him. Elain could nearly feel it.

“Since after the coup, yes,” she affirmed; there was no use in lying now, “I was only holding his whereabouts a secret so I could use him as a bargaining piece, in case we had lost support in the city.”

“ _Ne’seth renan, Elain_!” Revas spat at her.

“I did not lie,” she defended herself weakly, but he stood up before she had a chance to explain.

“He’s in the city?”

Elain did not answer him, and instead, pressed her lips together firmly as he stared her down. If Revas knew where Lokka was, he would kill him. It was that simple. And she needed him alive, no matter how reprehensible the slaver was. The fruit of her poisoned fields had already been plucked and bitten into, so it was only just that she tasted the flesh of that fruit herself. Revas’ anger would come no matter what; best that she use her mistakes to Wycome’s advantage.

“Answer me,” his words were cold, but his face betrayed the hot temper he was struggling with just under the surface. It did not intimidate her, but her heart shrank at the storm that was about to pass.

“I will not,” she said firmly, “This is not a matter that concerns you.”

He clenched his fist angrily, as if he were to use it, but thought better for it and lowered it to his waist. Instead, he spoke through gritted teeth, “He’s responsible for everything that happened here. He’s been haunting our clan for years. We’ve lost scouts to him. Good people with families and loved ones, snatched up and taken to Tevinter to be sold like chattel. And that doesn’t _concern me?_!”

She shook her head slowly, “I know what he’s done, but throwing him to the hounds to be ripped apart would give us nothing--”

“ _It would give us justice_!” he yelled, “It’d give Oryna and Galeris and Uthenal and all of Lavellan some peace! It would've sent a message to every slaver who tried to take our people again!”

“Da’len, please calm down,” Deshanna pleaded to him, but Revas was having none of it. 

“No! No no _no_. This is too much. You’ve pushed me too far this time, Elain.”

His anger was not unsurprising, but she was annoyed with him baring it so publicly. This wasn’t a time to express their doubts and make everyone aware of how he truly felt. This was a negotiation, and Revas had forgotten that he wasn’t the only one there. It made Elain angry too, at him and at herself. She should not have withheld her knowledge of Lokka, but it was done, and Revas couldn’t see past his anger towards the potential of what Coban was offering. It was short-sighted and foolish, and only highlighted how woefully unprepared he was to take over the tasks that Den had always left to her. 

It was a pity that she would be the once forced to make him see.

“You are making a scene, Warlord. I assured the Inquisitor of the benefit of having you at these discussions, and you’re only making her and everyone else second guess that decision,” she scolded him sharply, “This is an opportunity to change Wycome, change the entire Free Marches, and I banked _everything_ on it by holding Lokka! If you are unable to process the political maneuvering that must be done to save this city and the people in it --including the dealings with the merchants and all that entails-- then perhaps you should leave it to those who can handle more than firing an arrow from his bow towards an enemy.”

If he was angry before, he was furious now. 

“ _MIr bor’assan venavis var halam_ ,” he said to her, his words dripping in malice, “Don’t forget that.”

Revas turned to leave, the loud stomp of his boots the only noise in the library now. She held her breath as she watched him go, knowing that this was the breaking point. Whatever loyalty he gave to her would now be in shambles, and she would not be able to expect his cooperation with stabilizing the city. Or anything else. All her battles would be fought on her own, and it was no less than she deserved.

“Before you go Revas,” Sar’een called out to him, stopping him in his tracks, “If I happen to find out of the premature death of one of our dwarven captives in the Nacre Palace, there will be _dire_ repercussions.”

He did not turn to respond to the Inquisitor’s threat, but instead left the library, slamming the heavy doors behind him. The loud bang of the wood nearly echoed off the high ceilings, and the room sat uncomfortably still immediately afterwards. 

“He going to be a problem?” Coban finally asked, and Elain shifted in her chair at the question. 

“No,” she replied, though she felt as if it was a lie. Perhaps he wouldn’t be a problem for the merchant, but she worried that everything between them was unsalvageable now. He said she had pushed him too far. Revas would not say that unless he meant it. 

“Look, I don’t know who in the Maker’s Light this _Lokka_ fellow is, but I’m still listenin’,” Sal announced, “Tell us what you want and what you’re gonna give us for it.”

Coban gave a short laugh, “Glad to see some of you are still thinking about the business at hand.”

“Thankfully,” Lady Volant murmured, “Such theatrics from elves…”

Coban paid the remark no mind, “These elves have every reason to be upset. Harik has been a very, _very_ naughty boy. Funding slaver operations, smuggling bodies into Tevinter, and the biggest sin of all...bankrolling it out of House Davri’s pocket.”

Volant gasped, and Coban nodded his head sagely, “Oh, do I know it! A respected, powerful _kalna_ like House Davri has to be beyond reproach, and Harik is endangering everything we’ve built up since we first left Orzammar; including having our lifelines to Orzammar cut off entirely. House Vasca would drool over the idea of seeing my father ousted and our house status crumble. Then they would scramble to pick up just where we left off, taking all of our property and trade contracts with them, leaving us nothing but dust.”

“Scandalous!” Lady Volant exclaimed.

“Indeed. We need to rectify this before word gets out of what Harik has done--”

“And before the other Houses find out where House Davri’s ill-gotten funds sprung from,” Elain added dully. This little scene playing out was already tiresome, “You want to take Lokka and maintain your untarnished status, but with all the gold he earned from selling my people still in tact.”

“You judge me too harshly, Lady Maiden,” Coban grinned at her, “And underestimate just how much wealth passes through House Davri’s hands. Harik’s silly _operations_ have always been unnecessary and have cost us more coin than earned us. His little plans with Tevinter were always a fool’s fancy.”

“So you want him because he’s losing you money? I fail to see how that’s better,” she remarked bitterly.

“I don’t expect elves to understand the politics of the Merchant’s Guild, especially a Dalish. But let me just say this: there’s more to our inner workings than wealth,” he explained, “Much more. My father is very old, and his time ruling the house is limited. When he retires, the burden of carrying on House Davri’s legacy falls on the shoulders of the eldest son. That’s Harik.”

“Go on,” Sar’een urged him, setting her chin on her hand as she listened to him in earnest. 

“By all rights, Harik will inherit the rule of House Davri, and then it’ll pass to his eldest son, and so on and so on. Even the fact that he’s gambled money away on slaving in order to get a foothold in Tevinter markets isn’t something that would bring him down. All the Houses in the Merchant’s Guild engage in…less than legal activities. It’s an unspoken rule.”

“I know. One of my companions is part of House Tethras. Get to the point,” the Inquisitor pressed him. 

“Oh, that’s right. Varric is roughing it with you,” Coban said, “Well, unlike Varric, I don’t shy away from responsibility. Living out the rest of my life in my brother’s shadow, cooking his books, acting as his accountant...not too appealing. So I see _opportunity_ in Wycome. Opportunity to get a stronger presence in the trade here in the North, opportunity to build up our routes in the Free Marches, and opportunity to be more than a glorified scribe for the rest of my days.”

A spark of glee rose in Elain’s chest. It was clear to her what he wanted now and it seemed well within her reach, “And we can help you with that? An accident, or perhaps just a report of a dwarf among the dead on Poppy Avenue, poisoned by the red lyrium the mad Duke forced on his people. Maybe even a body washed up in the tributaries to the city? So many possibilities! I’m sure you have some contingency ready, Ser Davri.”

Coban laughed, a loud, long one this time, “That I do Lady Maiden. That I do. And for you and your people’s cooperation, you have House Davri, the DesJardins, and all the merchants and traders in Wycome --and beyond-- raising their voices with yours when a new ruler is picked. We all stand to gain a lot here, if we can make a deal.”

“So you want Lokka -- _Harik_ \-- for your support,” Sar’een spoke to herself, thinking on the great gift that had been dropped on their lap, “The life of one slaver for all the ones moving the money in the Free Marches.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

“And that’s all you want?” she pressed him further. Coban looked to Lady Volant.

“The expectation is that you’ll choose a ruler who isn’t averse to protecting the merchant interests, which you should find will fall in line with the needs of the city quite often,” Volant stated, “And there is also the matter of the Lady Maiden settling her debt with me.”

“And how do you propose I do that, Lady Volant?” Elain inquired, curious to see what game the noblewoman was playing. Her ever present smile brightened, and her teeth gleamed under the thin lips stretched over them.

“By keeping a presence in Autini Valley, whenever your little clan returns. I hear it’s rather treacherous to travel through there, and I’d prefer if my new shipments of goods traveling from the ports of Wycome to the edge of Hasmal were well protected.”

“Trade contracts from the Merchant’s Guild and safe passage through our hunting grounds,” she surmised easily.

“Such a simple thing for the fiefdom of Wycome, no? A city-state under your hand, and all for one slaver and a promise of safe travels.”

“What’s the catch?” Sal asked warily. He was not quick to trust, and for good reason, but Elain hoped he could see the value in what Coban and Volant were offering, “Nothin’ like this comes easy.”

“Ruling a city is not easy, monsieur, as I’m sure your people will come to find,” Volant replied sweetly, “It’s why I prefer to see to the financial affairs of my family. The burden of authority grows wearisome after a time, but the competition of trade never fails to amuse.”

“And you expect me to believe you’re just gonna be happy with an elf runnin’ the show here?” Sal was not convinced.

“Believe what you want. I have been forthright in what I want in exchange for my assistance. There has been no need for subterfuge or bards,” Lady Volant defended herself, “And regardless of what your Inquisitor decides, my business is secured. I am merely trying to offer aid to those who suffered most in this nightmare.”

“Thank you, Lady Volant,” Sar’een said, then nodded her head towards the dwarf, “And thank you, Ser Coban. Your offers have been generous, and there is no doubt that we all want what will be best for the city, even if our paths to that end seem different. You both have given me much to consider.”

It was a dismissal, and both Volant and Coban were quick enough to understand. They stood from their seats and focused on Sar’een’s words.

“I won’t make the final decision until tomorrow. My Spymaster will contact you --discreetly-- in the morning with my answer.” She narrowed her eyes at Coban, “If I do decide to take this deal, I hope it’s clear that the Maiden will not hand over Harik until the city is secure?”

He nodded his understanding, “Wouldn’t ask you to go in on trust alone, but I do need Harik alive, for the time being. The carta isn’t in on the plan yet, and if he gets offed before the exchange, they may come looking for payback.”

“We can allow one of your people to be stationed inside the palace cells to prevent that,” Sar’een offered, “Is that sufficient?”

“That’ll do.”

Sar’een stood from her chair, “Good. I need to think on the situation for now. Have Lady Volant speak with my Spymaster regarding the conversation and coordinate with her to set up your inside man. And then....wait for my answer tomorrow.”

They both acknowledged her order with a bow, then turned and left the room with no fanfare. As the door finally closed behind them, Elain let out all of the air from her lungs. This had been taxing, on all of them, and only time would tell if would do them any good. The Free Army still camped in the tributaries, no matter how much Coban protested Killian’s uselessness. 

“I need you to meet me here tomorrow before dawn,” Sar’een gave instructions to those who remained, “Don’t be late. Wycome hangs in the balance.”

“Of course, da’len,” Deshanna said softly. The Keeper hooked her arm in Sal’s, and drew him away from the cedar desk and towards the exit. Elain followed closely behind, her thoughts racing at all the things that could go wrong, and at all the things that could go right. The deal was precarious, but promised the greatest change in power the Free Marches would see in ages. History was being made, right before their very eyes.

“Elain. Stay here.”

She stopped abruptly, and turned to face her friend. Sar’een had sat back down in her chair at the desk, and looked as if she aged a decade in the span of an evening. Sal and Deshanna shut the door behind them as they disappeared into the night, and Elain made her way back to the Inquisitor’s side, sitting in the chair closest to her. Reaching out, she placed her hand on top of Sar’een’s and found her to be cold, like ice. 

This had truly exhausted her, and it left Elain’s heart aching all the more. 

“You should’ve told me,” Sar’een said dully after a few moments of silence. Her voice was flat, as if her soul had left an empty husk that merely went through the motions. 

“I know.”

“I would’ve understood.”

“I know that too.”

Sar’een looked up at her, the deep brown of her eyes moist with unshed tears, “Then why did you keep it a secret? You of all people know the problems Lokka has caused.”

She sighed deeply, “There’s nothing I can say. I kept him secret because I could use him. He was just a distraction to pull out if Paeris were to pin me against a wall. If I had told anyone, his fate would have been taken out of my hands, and I would have lost the only thing that might save my life, should the worst have happened.”

The Inquisitor said nothing, and instead pulled her hand out from under Elain’s, and brought it to her temple. She rested her head there and closed her eyes. 

The silence was deafening. Elain knew she had been wrong, but seeing Sar’een so hurt, remembering Revas’ rage, knowing the pain that Lokka caused her kin, knowing all of it...this was more than wrong. It was what Old Bida spoke of, that nagging doubt that often whispered in her ear that she pushed down with aggressive indifference. _All for the cause_ , she would tell herself. _I worked too hard for this_. Another excuse. The grief of that understanding threatened to return again, and her voice caught in her throat as she tried to stifle the tears that wanted so desperately to flow. 

“It was my fault,” Sar’een broke the silence, “I’ve always looked up to you. You’re the Maiden. Fearless. Ruthless. Cunning.” She waved her hand shallowly as she enunciated each word, “Everything always came so easy for you. I told myself, _Of course Elain will handle the situation in Wycome! I know exactly what she’ll do, and I know she’ll pull it all through._ I never doubted you’d liberate the city and rebuild it from the clay. It’s what you do, right?”

Elain did not respond. It was time to listen.

“You did it. By the Creators’ Will, you did it. Everything I expected and more. And I was so happy to see it, so happy to just see _you._ Because as everything was changing around me, making me feel isolated and alone, at least Elain hadn’t changed. At least Elain still furrowed her brow when she was disappointed and stared down the mightiest of foes without blinking. At least Elain still controlled the world, and since she did, there was still a place for me in her plans….And I was right.”

She paused for a moment, but Elain watched her intently, fresh tears clouding her eyes, yet still determined to listen.

“I was watching you through stained glass all my life though. You had plans and places for everyone, but it wasn’t because you cared about doing what was right. Everything was for you. It was all for you.” Sar’een gave a short, sad laugh, then shook her head, “I don’t know why I never saw it for what it was before. Maybe I was just naive. Maybe I just refused to see it because it meant you weren’t the shining example of strength I hoped for. But it was just another facade, wasn’t it? You aren’t strong because you make things better. You’re strong because everyone else is too weak to tell you ’no’.”

She looked down on the knotted wood of the desk, refusing to meet Elain’s eye.

“I should’ve expected Lokka. I should’ve known you’d do something to save yourself. And Creators forgive me, I should’ve known that you’d damn all the consequences to keep that Mantle.”

It took every last bit of will she had not to choke out a cry at her friend’s words, but even so, her hand flew to her mouth in case she couldn’t stop herself. Elain’s soul had been torn from her, laid before her, judged and prodded like a piece of meat, and under the scrutinizing eye of her mentor and her dearest friend, it was found wanting. It was hard not to feel wounded.

Nothing Sar’een said was untrue. None of it was unfair. It was all simply who she was, who she had always been, and now she wondered, if it was all she could ever be. She had hurt the people closest to her that night she dealt with Lady Volant, and only now saw the consequences come full circle. Elain held her voice, but the tears that welled in her eyes burst forth, crawling down her face, sinking into her shaking hand. She had done this. And it was only now that she found her regrets. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Sar’een continued on tonelessly, “Your selfishness may have saved the city. Because of this deal, I can do what I wanted to all along.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled as she said it. 

“Don’t be. It was just a means to an end, and the end will help us. You did everything that was expected of you.”

“I don’t want to be what everyone expects me to be,” she confessed, the tears flowing faster now, “I didn’t want this.”

“You didn’t want to rule the city?”

Elain’s blood ran cold at the question, because she knew the answer and knew Sar’een did as well, and she wasn’t strong enough to resist something she had worked so hard for. Even in this pain, as she swam in her regrets, she coveted that power that dangled so tantalizingly close. She wanted the city. She wanted it under her heel; she wanted to be the center of this world she had built up; she wanted to rule. The taste of sovereignty lingered on her lips, and she dreamt of drinking deeply from that well of power.

“It’s what I had planned all along, you know. It only seemed right,” Sar’een explained, “And I’m not like you. I won’t take it away because you hurt me. You put all the time and effort into this, acted on my behalf, built this place back up from the ashes. It wouldn’t be fair to snatch away from your hands. You earned it.”

“Please…” she whispered, unable to deny the burning need that ate her. 

The room slowly grew dark, the candelabra’s light taken over by a creeping, inky blackness. It climbed down the walls, slinked across the floor, swallowing up everything that came in its path. The darkness seemed alive, and it seemed to speak in stifled screams, a chorus of her own voice banging against the walls of the library and against the walls of her head. It was as if she was submerged in water, and everything feel full to burst and yet muffled. She was transported entirely from that room and into another world, one whose depths opened like a voracious maw, closing around her to feast.

That blackness devoured everything, leaving only a single light shining in Sar’een. She was golden radiance against the void, but even the most radiant stars dim, then burn out. Ever so slowly, that darkness ate her too. It creeped up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, tangling itself around her like vines, choking her and extinguishing the only luminance left in the world.

“You can have Wycome. It’s yours to rule,” the glowing specter of Sar’een offered, the light pouring from her mouth as the words floated in the darkness between them. 

That darkness ebbed and thrummed at the offer, as if it wanted her to embrace it, to take the gift placed on the altar and free the light from its choking grasp. Elain blinked her eyes rapidly, trying desperately to diminish the vision, but it lingered, blinding her, frightening her, paralyzing her. That offer hung in the air, and she sat, catatonic; utterly unable to reconcile the ties that would shatter, never to be repaired again, if she were to embrace this.

And then it dawned on her, as surely as the sun would dawn on the horizon, bringing its blazing conquest across the land. 

This was the precipice. This was the cusp of transformation that Bida told her she was within reach of. This was the moment of uncertainty that would test her resolve, and force her to choose between what she was and the potential of what she could be that her mentor had always seen in her. It made her heart beat like a heavy drum, banging against her ribcage and bringing her breath short. She just wanted the darkness to go away, she just wanted things to be like they were. It was too much, too much, all too much, they couldn’t expect her to give this up. Not after all this. 

“I...I…” she tried to force the words out, but stumbled over her answer, and the darkness seemed to expand and retract at her faltering. It was too much. 

Indecision plagued her, hounded her, cornered her as the world around her fell to that inky blackness, and then at last, started to eat her too. Its maw wasn’t cavernous, or even large at all. Instead, it was the tiny pinprick of gluttonous mouths latched onto her body, squirming and writhing as maggots, threatening to have their fill until she was nothing but picked-clean bones. 

The urge to let them consume her was overwhelming. Just let them sink their sharp teeth in and pull her into this undertow. A throne awaited her there, and all the power she could ever desire. No one would be able take the Mantle from her there. Paeris would be impotent, Vhannas would be shunned, the Council would cower at her reach and her swift justice. No one would have the power to threaten her again. It was all she ever coveted, all she ever longed for, all she ever worked for, and it would be so easy to close her claws around it. 

But it would also leave her utterly, utterly alone.

_Reach for it, Elain. Do not hold back any longer for fear of losing all you have fought for._

She invoked Bida’s voice in her mind and tried to soothe her heart with it. It was was sharp, but not like teeth, and always stated with such profound simplicity. But that simplicity was comforting now in the darkness. It wrapped around her like a well-loved cloak, warm and familiar, coaxing her will to fight against the easiest path. Her mentor’s advice made the darkness seem less dark and the voraciousness of the maggots less consuming. It was difficult, but not impossible, if only she would take that leap.

The old Maiden was right. She had always been right. The fear had held Elain back for far too long.

“No. I can’t take it.”

The room shifted suddenly, leaving her back in the well-lit library, Sar’een in front of her, wide-eyed and mouth open, but safe. No blackness ate away at her, no writhing maggots swarmed her, no golden light disappeared under the blanket of bitumen. The vision vanished as quickly as it came, as if the words themselves had broken a terrible spell. Nothing was there to suffocate her anymore, and she inhaled deeply, letting the air clear any lingering darkness that would make a home inside of her. The tears were still there on her face, but they were calming instead of distracting now.

It was done.

“What? What do you mean ‘no’?” Sar’een was confused, her forehead creased in thought.

“I can’t rule this city,” the words were starting to come easier now that the most difficult part was overcome, “I want to so badly, but I cannot. The consequences of my actions would only hurt those that would need my protection. The elves here deserve more than I will be willing to give. Wycome deserves better than me.”

“But...you’ve already done so much here, Elain,” Sar’een pointed out, “I don’t fault you for Lokka, I really don’t. I told you, it was my fault for expecting you to be some pillar of strength I had conjured up in my mind.”

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, but _I can’t_. When given the option, it was too easy for me preserve myself at the expense of the people who have loved me and supported me. And I cannot promise that I wouldn’t do it again. If I sat as ruler in Wycome, there would be nothing to stop me from doing it either. I would be in charge of the guard, dictate who rose and fell in my favor, and be given the opportunity to crush any opposition that should come my way.”

She could envision it all too clearly, and it was harrowing to see herself as she truly was.

“Wycome needs someone who will put its people before themselves,” she continued, though it hurt to do so, “And given free reign, I know that I can’t do that. The temptation to reach for more would be too strong.”

“You’re turning this down.”

“I am.” 

The finality of it was unquestionable. In no uncertain terms, she had declined to take the most tempting offer that she would see in her life. There was an alleviation in that, a lightness. Elain had been tested, and she had learned to accept that not everything was hers for the taking. It was humbling, but left her exhausted.

Sar’een laughed in a defeated amusement, “You truly are impossible, Elain. I’m giving you what everyone knows you want, and you’re turning it down.” Another chuckle, this one strained, but then she let out a sigh.

“Maybe you have changed after all,” Sar’een mused to herself, “I would never have expected this.”

“I’ve been afraid of the consequences of my deeds for too long,” she admitted, “It’s been a long time coming.”

“Maybe. Or it could just be you punishing yourself for not seeing the long term results of your plans?” Sar’een offered, “Whatever it is, I won’t force you to take the throne. It’s really thrown a branch in my aravel wheel, though!”

Elain laughed now, “I didn’t meant to ruin your plans. Up until tonight, I was right at your side.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I’m sure there are plenty of people here willing to take up where you left off.”

“It should be Sal,” she suggested, “All my time here in Wycome would’ve been nothing without his help. He’s the one who truly lives and breathes this city and its people.”

“Can he lead?”

“Yes,” Elain nodded her head and wiped the tears from her cheeks, “And very well. The humans and the elves both respect him. The Thieves’ Guild would be satisfied with him, the Merchant’s Guild would be satisfied with him, the dockworkers, the fishermen...everyone. He’s a good choice.”

“I'll think on it then.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked her. Elain felt guilty for interrupting all the plans Sar’een had laid out, even if it was the better option, “Just tell me what you need.”

She bit her lower lip in thought, looking up towards the ceiling of the room, “I guess you can talk to Revas. Providing safe passage through our hunting territories isn’t a hard thing to enforce, but if the acting Warlord isn’t behind it…”

“Then neither are the hunters,” Elain finished her thought, “And I can’t protect caravans all by myself, no matter how determined.” She pushed herself away from the desk and stood up with a heavy sigh, “I’ll talk to him, though I don’t know if he’ll listen. For him, withholding Lokka was a complete betrayal of his trust.”

“So he doesn’t trust you,” Sar’een shrugged it off, then stood up next to her, “Make him see that turning down this deal means the clan is stuck here.”

They walked towards the doors leading out into the hallway together, stepping in time, shoulder to shoulder. 

“Easier said than done with Revas. Anyone else might appeal to his sense of homesickness and get somewhere, but I hurt him, ” her shoulders slumped as she grasped the depths in which she had wounded their relationship, “I don’t want to lose his support. I’ll do my best.”

Sar’een chuckled softly next to her, “I don’t know what you see in him. He’s absolutely wretched.”

They walked out of the library and into the hall, preparing to separate and walk in opposite directions to fulfill the tasks that Wycome’s fate depended on. Elain took one last look at her friend.

“I know. But so am I.”

She turned left and walked down the hallway leading to the guest suites, drawing her Mantle around her shoulders tightly as she went to face the next challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations** s
> 
> Ne’seth renan - You’re thin-voiced, more literally, “You’re a liar”
> 
> Mir bor’assan venavis var halam - My bow stopped our defeat


	57. Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain and Revas must face the deep fractures in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content in this chapter. Also, for people who are sensitive to yelling/shouting in arguments, this chapter could have triggering content. Please see footnotes for elvhen translations.

_“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”_

_Revas looked up at her from the base of the tree she had secluded herself in as he spoke, but Elain paid him no mind. She swung the leg hanging off the thick tree branch to and fro idly as she focused on the piece of ivory she held in her hands. It was boar tusk from her first proper kill, and she wanted to make something special out of it. She turned the ivory over in her hands slowly, and she carved away the likeness of a halla, from the hooves to the spiraling antlers atop its head. Elain found it difficult to care about his insincere apology while she worked on something that she could wear proudly, remembering her triumph every time she looked at it._

_But he kept standing there, staring up at her like a kicked hound, refusing to leave. She rolled her eyes and let her hands settle on her lap._

_“Did your mother tell you to apologize to me?” she questioned him icily, “Or did you want to borrow my bow and couldn’t do it if I was cross with you?”_

_He shook his head, “I swear Elain, it was neither. I was...I don’t know, I was just--”_

_“Being an ass,” she finished for him, “a colossal, inconsiderate ass.”_

_“I wasn’t being...I was just trying to....” he groaned loudly, “You were being impossible!”_

_“No, I wasn’t,” she said, then cleared her throat pointedly. “I’m waiting.”_

_Revas leaned his back against the great oak’s trunk and sighed dramatically, “Alright, yeah, I was being an ass. You got me. So here I am saying I’m sorry. Happy?”_

_“I’m never happy around you Shem’assan,” she picked up her boar tusk again, getting back to work. “You do nothing but cause me headaches.”_

_“Seriously Elain? I said I’m sorry!”_

_“What good is sorry if you don’t mean it?” she pointed out. The ivory was tougher than halla horn, but not as tough as ironbark, of course. Once she got her rhythm, it would melt easily enough. Besides, she needed to get used to the material. This was only her first big kill from a hunt. She was excited for many more to come in the near future._

_“I do mean it!” he argued with her, but his face was turning red from frustration. It was obvious he expected her immediate acceptance of his silly apology when he planned all this out, but she wasn’t convinced. He’d been absolutely insufferable on the hunting grounds lately. Word of him being considered by the Warlord as the first hunter apprentice among their age group to get his vallaslin had made him even cockier than usual._

_Which was why he tried to sabotage her first kill. Taking more credit than he deserved and giving her less than she needed. He was probably threatened by Old Bida approving her ascension into the Maiden initiates once she received her own vallaslin. Creator’s forbid someone drew attention away from his hunting prowess! Elain could see right through him and his little show. She wouldn’t let him win._

_“Then prove it,” she challenged him. “If you’re truly sorry, then tell the Lead Hunter I killed the boar outright.”_

_“But you didn’t. Me and Llyn did most of the work!”_

_“I landed the killing blow, “ she pointed out, “And I tracked it to Pegen’s Respite. By all rights, I should get the credit for it.”_

_“Saying you tracked it is a reach, El,” he scoffed._

_“Then why are you coming to apologize?” she pressed him. “You obviously don’t think I did anything worthwhile, and you made sure the Lead Hunter knew that you and Llyn had to help me, so now I have to put in more time before I can get considered for my vallaslin. Don’t say you’re sorry if you don’t want to make it right.”_

_“What do you want me to do? Lie to Jerran and say you led us and did it all?”_

_“It would certainly be a start,” she said smugly as she honed in on chipping away larger pieces of ivory to give her halla some legs._

_Revas groaned loudly and bumped the back of his head against the tree, “Maybe you should just admit you’re not good enough to handle leading big hunts on your own! Then me and Llyn wouldn’t have to carry you!”_

_She laughed, “See? I told you that you weren’t sorry!”_

_He glared up at her in the tree, his brow furrowed in anger and mouth turned down in a frown, but Elain continued her carving, ignoring his stupid fit. It went eerily quiet then, with only the sound of her working away on her ivory to fill her ears, and she thought that perhaps he’d learned his lesson._

_“Elain…”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“I’ll talk to Jerran. You did really well, even if we did help. I shouldn’t have tried to take that away from you.”_

_She tucked her project away in her belt, sat up fully on the tree branch, then smiled down on him widely._

_“A decent start to getting back in my good graces.”_

_He smiled now too, shaking his head, then reached his arms up to assist her, “You’re such a brat.”_

_Elain lowered herself down from the branch, while Revas grabbed her waist to help ease her to the ground. She couldn’t help but notice how those hands felt on her, and couldn’t deny the slight skip in her heartbeat at his closeness. It was warm and secure, and oh so familiar, but far too fleeting. He set her down gently and met her eyes, and the smile on his face melted away. The hands lingered on her waist, and the lightness he carried before was replaced with intensity. A strange air seemed to brew, and it made Revas look less of a nuisance and something more...desirable. That strangeness curled in her belly, as if she should seek out more, find answers; he looked as if he wanted her to, but that too was fleeting._

_It was Revas, after all. A silly boy who thought everything in the world was a competition for him to win._

_“I’m not a brat,” she finally broke that spell that had come over them with teasing words, hoping to bring back the lightness from before, “I just have high expectations.”_

_His smile returned, but it seemed lacking this time, as if something was missing. Whatever it was, she knew he wouldn’t say. She was glad for it. It was time to eat, and she couldn’t be bothered to get to the bottom of it on an empty stomach. The smell of game roasting over a pit wafted in the air, making her stomach grumble, and they began their walk back to camp so they could get their supper rations. They strode side by side, as they had always done, for as long as she could remember._

_“I hope I meet your expectations,” he said softly next to her, still smiling, but looking at the ground in front of them, “Hope I’m good enough for you.” This sudden shyness was entertaining her. Endearing her, even._

_“Don’t be silly. You may be annoying, but you’re not some dull blade,” she leaned into his shoulder, then looked up at him with a grin, “But I have to admit...it’s fun seeing you grovel when you don’t.”_

_Revas gave her shoulder a shove, all that shyness evaporated in the late day sun, and proclaimed loudly, “Then next time I should just fall to my knees and beg the forgiveness of Her Majesty Peach right away. Then maybe someday I’ll come close to meeting her expectations!” He swung his arms dramatically to make his point, an over the top act to convey how very not sorry he really was, but all Elain could do was giggle._

_“Mmm, yes. Someday.”_

_\---_

Elain stared at the deep ocean blue of the doors that led into the guest suite quarters she had called her own for the past weeks. They seemed daunting, impenetrable, a veritable fortress that she couldn’t fathom how to get past. Those doors were solid sentinels, silent and foreboding, looming over her in a manner that intimidated and obstructed. These ancient constructs, these lifeless guardians...they blocked her path and kept her from her goal, standing in the way of her and the person she sought out. In the old tales, a riddle, or perhaps some sort of ritual would open these chambers, and a sense of accomplishment and victory along with it. But it was not a riddle, or even an obstruction. Elain need only reach her hand out and push, and her path would be clear. 

It seemed to her like the most difficult thing in the world. She was very afraid.

Every time she conjured the courage to face her next challenge, something stilled her hand, and she stood outside the suite, foolish and dumbstruck. Each moment the will would come, then immediately leave again, leaving her hand trembling and her heart racing. She listened for noises inside the chambers, anything to ease her heart and give her the indication that she may be able to save this conversation for another day, but the subtle sound of a cup being lifted and placed down again in drink floated in her ears. Revas was in there, and he was waiting, and Elain herself was reduced to a simpering child because of it. 

She closed her eyes and recalled times when things had been easier. When everything was fresh and new, when they shared secrets freely under the sun, then snuck away together in the dead of night to make new ones. They were fresh-faced and young, sheltered from the world that would test them and their loyalties, their resolve, their path they had chosen...there was nothing to fear in that time. Visions of summer rains and of soft grass that matched his eyes and the scent of wood fire and sweat that always lingered on his skin brewed up from her soul, and it nearly took her breath away. If only they had stayed that innocent. If only they hadn’t complicated things. If only, if only. 

Elain inhaled deeply, preparing herself for the worst, then set her hand on the door. She pretended to not know what the worst actually was when she turned that handle. A lost temper was manageable, angry words could be soothed, but the rift that sat between them now was so much more than that. The depths of the fracture is what she feared, and her utter lack of guidance one what to do to mend it. For all her self-congratulatory political prowess, she was in over her head when it came to something this personal.

The door creaked when it opened, and she slipped inside quietly, letting the lock _click_ gently behind her. There was a fire lit in the brazier, making flickering shadows dance across the wide walls of the chambers. She hugged her arms tightly as she crossed the room, unsettled by the creeping darkness of the shadows. That fear welled up in her, waiting to swallow her as surely as the darkness, and every step she made was as if she lived a year. One foot, then another, then another, and a lifetime of deceit, betrayal, selfishness, and cruelty followed her, each one its own shadow twirling around her and mocking her regret.

But Revas cast the largest shadow of them all. 

He sat on the edge of the bed they shared, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered and looking down towards the floor, facing the brazier directly. His shadow climbed up the wall until it reached the ceiling, and it commanded all the other ones like a king and his courtesans. Elain was the foreigner here, looked down upon and judged for her audacity to attempt to hold court with this ruler, and for a heartbeat, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and flee. 

“Come to gloat at my defeat?” he asked her, but didn’t lift his head. The words made her stop in her path, frozen in place with that fear. Her mind raced with things to say to placate him, to make things right, to get him back on her side and revert to what they once were. She wanted so badly for him to be hers again, when they worked together as one, him following every command as if it came from a goddess. 

But she also wanted to rule the city. And she knew that what she wanted caused more harm to everyone around her than herself. It would be selfish of her to ask for things to stay as they were. He was not happy, and though it pained her to admit it, neither was she. There was no going back. 

“Where’s Heliwr?” she asked, though their son was the least of her worries. Just a stalling tactic, or maybe a cowardly hope that with Heliwr here, that somehow Revas would be softer, more forgiving. It was silly to think their child could mend this for her.

“My mother is taking care of him tonight. I thought the talks about the future of the city were too important to miss out on. Little did I know...” he explained, then let out a great sigh. “Hate being right sometimes.”

“It wasn’t a defeat, Revas,” she attempted to assure him, “you can’t battle what you can’t see.”

“And whose fault is that?” his voice began to rise, and the thought that he would not lose his temper fluttered away in the night. “Just another secret for you to keep so I’m blind and stupid and can’t fight back. Just another thing for you to dangle in front of me so I’ll jump however high you want.”

He turned his head to look towards her, but did not rise from his perch at the end of the bed, “And of course I’ll jump, right? Of course. I don’t have any other choice. Everything I do is just a child’s game compared to you, and you’ll walk circles around me while I just swing at the air, trying to get the upperhand of the situation and only ending up knocking myself off balance. Even when I try to do things I think will protect me, it’s still not enough. Nothing I do is enough. I struggle, and you just sit and laugh at me falling over and over again.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Elain defended herself, “And up until you decided to go behind my back and talk your way into a better position, we’d always worked in tandem. If you failed, I failed. If you succeeded, I succeeded. What do I have to gain by seeing you falter?”

“Now that I’m not your Shadow? More power, More prestige. A shitty Warlord helps you more than a decent one. If I look like a bumbling idiot, then everyone has to turn to you for leadership and advice. No more middleman between you and the hunters, and no one who can challenge you when you reach to far for what you want. That’s what it always comes down to...what _you_ get out of it,” Revas nearly spat the last words at her; a condemnation for her behavior, with the malice he felt all too obvious. “ _And whatever the Maiden wants, she gets_. She wanted to risk the lives of all the hunters and the clan itself in a race to glory against her brother? Lavellan storms a city for her. She wanted to execute the Duke of Wycome without thinking of the consequences and how it will hurt us? He and everyone associated with his regime is dead. She wanted the Inquisitor to protect her from the Free Army after those consequences came? The Inquisition marched. And now, Wycome needs a new ruler, and the Mantle demands it. It’s only a matter of time before she gets that too. So _congratu-fucking-lations_ , Elain. You get to be the queen you’ve always dreamed of, while the rest of us are punished for serving your interests.”

“You think so little of me. I don’t understand why you even waited here if that’s how you felt,” she managed to choke out. Hiis assessment hurt her; in its truth, its voracity, in the derisive way in which he pointed out exactly how she had manipulated Wycome to work in her favor. There was nothing she could deny, nor should she.

But he chuckled, a dark foreboding thing, “I’m not an idiot. I know my limits. If I walk out now and go do what I really want, I’ll probably fuck everything up for Yemet and Sal. And I didn’t sweat and bleed here to give the city back to shemlen.”

“That doesn’t answer why you waited here for me when it’s obvious you resent what I’ve done.”

“Shouldn’t I? Or did you really think this was okay?” he snapped at her, “Hiding shit like this is beyond the pale, Elain. I’ve dealt with a lot of bullshit from you, but being taken for a fool isn’t something I expected to happen.”

She sighed, then made her way closer to him.

“It’s not something I expected either, _Warlord_.”

Revas glared at her, obviously understanding the insinuation, “It’s not the same thing.”

“How is it not? You kept your repudiation of your role from me secret, plotted behind my back, and led an ill-timed takeover to undermine me,” her response was sharper than she expected, but his anger was stoking her own hurt and she had no will to contain it. “At least I had the interest of the city when I hid Lokka, even if it did line up with my own. If he was dead, he couldn’t be used as leverage. You just took a position of power as retaliation for me not falling over myself after your sloppy proposal.”

“That’s not why I did it,” he gritted his teeth as his temper simmered, but she was not intimidated. Let her be judged and have accusations hurled at her, but he had been no better. He could not stand an entirely innocent party in this.

“Then why?” she pressed him, “Why agree to take that position and leave me in the dust if not for revenge? You wanted to hurt me for hurting you, and this was how it was repaid. I am not stupid either, Revas.”

He sprung up from the bed, causing the whole thing to shake, and looked down on her, “Not everything is about you, Elain. Not every _fucking_ thing is about you!”

“Then what was it about, hmm? Was it about Threlen bribing you, promising you a command for an alliance? Was it about Den being pushed by your mother to do something? Or did you always covet it?” He began to pace in front of her, but she followed his path, refusing to let him ignore her. “Were you so confined under my command that you had to take the reins from me through subterfuge so you could hold them in your bloodied hands? Is that what you _always_ wanted? To have a taste of what I have? Tell me Revas! Tell me! Because I know if this is not about me, it’s about your own ambition, and in searching both possibilities, I do not know which one is worse!”

“Un-fucking-believable,” he murmured to himself as he threw his hands up in the air, “ _Un. Fucking. Believable_. This was never about me! Never! This whole thing was always about you and your fucking selfishness, and instead of confronting the fact that you betrayed me--”

“Betrayed?” she scoffed as she interrupted him. “ _Betrayed,_ he says. I kept a secret from you so you wouldn’t act brashly and undo plans I had made. What you did to me was undermine me in front of the whole Council, then tell everyone there your plans to discard me! It was as if I had been stabbed in my heart!”

Tears started to well in her eyes at the recollection of the moment, but she pressed on, “Yes, I broke your trust by not telling you something you needed to know. Lokka was an arrow dug under your skin, and instead of helping you remove it, I let it stay embedded. But I did no more damage! I did not set out to harm you! I did not keep anything that would change our lives from you! I did not pull your entire life out from under you! I did not upset a balance that we’ve held for years! I did not throw away years of partnership and--and _love_ for the promise of authority! You-you…”

Her voice trailed off as she became overwhelmed with the pain that sat in her chest, and she stopped following his movements; instead, she stood as still as stone and buried her face in her hands, where she could sob in peace. Elain refused to look at him as she did. He had upended the life they had been building together for years, all for the sake of his own petty payback, and it all came back to her at once. 

“Why? Just tell me why,” she cried into her hands. “This pain in my heart won’t leave until I know.”

Revas didn’t move. He stood over her, his eyes burning through the top of her head, and she wished she was wearing armor to protect herself. She had let herself break down, and she was loathe to do it in front of him after all he had done to her. The wounds were still unhealed.

“I did it for Heliwr.”

She stilled at the statement and let her head rise from her hands, “What?”

“I took the position because of Heliwr. That’s all.”

Elain shook her head in disbelief, “I don’t understand.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down towards his feet, “And I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about Lokka! All you had to do was share the information and order me to stay my hand, and I would have. It would’ve pissed me off and made me question you and maybe even argue with you, but I wouldn’t have touched a hair on his worthless head. All because you said so.”

Revas paused, and his brows furrowed as if he was trying to suppress some thought, “And you knew it too. You knew that I’ve only served one goddess in my life, and She isn’t the one I wear on my face. I would storm the Beyond for you, and I don’t believe for a moment you thought otherwise.” He cupped his hand over his forehead, still looking downwards. ”No Elain...I would’ve listened, you know I would have listened, but you still said nothing. And that’s why you have this pain.”

“You’re blaming _my guilt_?” she asked in disbelief, “You can’t possibly fathom that you broke my heart with your actions, and now you want to blame me for my own hurt!”

He winced under his hand, “You’re still trying to change the subject…”

“And you’re avoiding it! You cannot deny that you hurt me. You cannot! Even if you did it for Heliwr, you did it at my expense. At the expense of his _mother!_ Just because…”

Elain paused, taking a deep breath to still the frenzy of emotions that were threatening to overtake her, “Just because I haven’t lived up to your idealization of me and the idyllic family life you wished for, doesn’t mean I deserved this punishment. Punish me for my thoughtlessness, my selfishness, my willfulness, but do not tell me I must own the pain you inflicted upon me!”

Despite her efforts, Elain’s turmoil overflowed, making her yell the words, making her feel exposed, vulnerable. Her shoulders trembled and fresh tears poured down her cheeks. He couldn’t expect her to forget this. It was too raw.

“Only if you stop trying to deflect all the blame onto me for this! You hurt me too,” he yelled back at her, his voice quaking with emotion. “You refused to tell me something you knew would change a situation, and instead of trusting me, you kept it secreted away to save yourself! I’ve served you loyally for almost a _decade_ , and after all this time, you _still_ don’t see me as anything but a tool to use! I’m spent, Elain! I’m exhausted! I’m done playing this game with you!”

“This isn’t a game! It’s my _life!_ I am on the path to losing _everything_ I have worked for, all because I loved you too much to let go,” she cried bitterly. “And how am I repaid? By you kicking me while I’m already low. By you uplifting yourself on some deluded idea that Heliwr needs you to do it. All of this while never giving thought to me. His mother. The person who carried him and brought him into this world. You would have the very essence of the love I bear for you taken from me so that you could sit comfortably on Council while I am stripped of everything. You cannot make a decision like that and pretend you care about our child!”

“You don’t even give a shit about what happens to him! As long as you’re safe and have the Mantle--”

“STOP!” she screamed at him, the air emptying from her lungs, “Stop stop stop! Don’t you _dare_ assume I don’t care about my son! I have fought to keep my Mantle, but only because I am powerless without it! If I am stripped of my title, I have nothing to protect Heliwr with! Nothing to protect _you_ with! Everything I have done, I have done to save us! I will not apologize for that!”

“That’s a _fucking reach_ , and you know it! If helping me and Heliwr is a side effect of you keeping your damned Mantle, then you’re all for it!” he rose his voice even louder to meet hers, “But the moment we become an obstacle in your way, you’ll toss us aside to save yourself and your title! I know you will! You've already done it over and over and over again, and you don't regret any of it! Not one moment!" His voice began to break now as tears welled in his eyes, "I lived with being pushed aside for your ambition,and it's crushed my heart and made me hate myself for it. I wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to my son!”

“You…” his words cut her deeply, far more than she could have anticipated. They were born of anger, and mistrust, and a hurt Revas carried as well, and it bloomed into a resentment that was written as clear as a summer sky. They didn't come from a place of revenge then, but instead, one of fear. He feared Heliwr being harmed the same way he had been harmed, and she feared of being left powerless, unable to keep the life she had worked so hard for. Somewhere along the way, their priorities had shifted.

“You really don’t trust me,” Elain still sobbed, though she tried to control herself, but it was a fruitless endeavor. She understood him not trusting her machinations, her politicking, her shutting him out of things she felt his presence would hinder; but this, this was much deeper. 

He didn't trust her to not hurt him, to not hurt Heliwr. And, with dawning melancholy and shame, she realized it was mutual. It was why she didn't mention Lokka, after all. She couldn't trust him to obey, couldn't hope for him to just fall in line. Elain had already pushed him to the edge knowing this.

 _Knowing this_. She had always known she had done this, hadn't she? The revelation that came with it was cruel and sharp, like a dagger in the chest, like an arrow in the back, like her own words and thoughts. 

Like her. 

“I can’t,” tears fell out Revas' eyes, blazing a trail along his cheeks, gliding down further, and settling their paths along his long jaw where they pooled and dripped off his chin. “Mythal grant me forgiveness, but I can’t.”

"And I can't trust you," her voice was hoarse from crying, and it hurt to speak, but she needed to say these things. She could hold them no longer, "I don't know..."

She caught the air in her lungs, already feeling the weight of the revelation boring through her, but she pressed on, "I don't know if I ever truly did. I...I trusted you to listen to my orders and obey my commands, but you're right. You were right from the very beginning--"

"I was a tool," he finished for her, and the defeat in it hurt her worse than any accusations he had thrown. "I was a weapon to use. A toy to play with. You trusted me as long as I bent do your every whim. I was only an arrow to be drawn on your bow."

"Revas..."

"Creators, I don't even know if you _ever_ loved me," he confessed, and the anger he held against her crested against the rocks of truth, only to recede and allow sadness to remain. The tears slipped from his eyes more rapidly, and he spoke quietly, "Maybe you loved what I could do for you, or what I represented. But..."

Revas gave a great shuddering sigh, "I just wanted that love so badly. I fought for it, bled for it. I withstood it all because I thought it meant something. Meant that you had to throw me a bone. But I can't do it anymore. Not anymore."

"It would be cruel for me to expect it," she whispered, numb to everything else now. 

Why had she thought it would be otherwise? Why had she told herself constantly that this was how it would end, only for the shock of it to leave her this numbness? Elain felt sick and alone and utterly, utterly lost. How had it come to this? It would always come to this. She had known. Damn it all, _she had known_. 

"How did it get like this?" he asked softly, all the anger disintegrated into the night. "How did we go from what we were to what we are now?"

She hugged her arms close to her chest. The tears were hot, but she felt a chill to her very bones, "I don't know."

The summers of their youth crawled into her mind, nostalgia promising to soothe her pain, and she let it linger in her thoughts for the moment instead of confronting what was in front of her.

They had been so alive, so free. They ran in the pouring rain, sat out under the endless star-lit night skies, drank deeply from stolen wine and then from each other. Everything had been tender and new, and they found escape in the other's presence. There, alone, they could be just Elain and Revas. There were no responsibilities to burden them, no impending obstacles to force them apart, no titles and positions to pit them against each other. The expectations were non-existent, and even if they had quarreled, everything was forgiven and forgotten with gentle words and even gentler caresses. 

It had been easier. There was no Mantle then. And even when she rose as Maiden, she pretended it didn't matter. They still made love under the stars and whispered heartfelt words of eternity in each others' ears. Elain knew the consequences, but ignored them anyways to keep the illusion alive for a little longer. She threw the dice, hoping it would land on a lucky number, all so she could watch his eyes flutter as he slept and feel his warmth to comfort her. 

It had always been selfish. Cruel. Demeaning. She had used him, time and time again, not out of love, but out of pride. Out of arrogance. Whatever love she held was eclipsed by her ambition, her need to project her authority. He hadn't been her partner, like she always had told herself. 

No; he had been her sword; her bulwark; the very foundation in which her temple was built. And she rewarded him by keeping him under heel, treating him like the beast so many thought he was. But she remembered Revas carrying her back to camp because she twisted her ankle from a failed jump, promising not to tell anyone and embarrass her further. She remembered him singing her songs to soothe her after another of her terrible nightmares, until she fell into a deep slumber once more. She remembered sitting with him in her yurt, the wind howling and sky thundering, and holding him as he cried after his father was buried. 

Elain had always seen the parts of him no one else had, and it was only now she realized how much she took it for granted. She let herself be vulnerable for him, but he worshipped her for it. All she ever gave him was another order to follow.

"What do we do now?" he inquired, but she didn't know if it was to her or himself. "We can't keep hurting each other like this. It isn't fair, and it's not what Heliwr should grow up seeing."

"I know," she affirmed, but her thoughts were becoming more and more distressing at each heartbeat. All along. She had done this to him all along. She had played both sides, wanting her meal and to eat it too, and had only hurt them in doing so. Despair stalked her, ready to settle inside her heart, and it was suffocating. Had she known sooner, had she tried harder, had she...had she loved him like he had deserved.

She lifted her head and met Revas' eyes, "Is it too late to speak? To talk? I am loathe to give up now."

He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, "I guess. But I don't want to fight anymore--"

"Neither do I!" she exclaimed as fresh tears spilled anew from her eyes. "I only want to talk. And to listen. No more sharp words. No more shouting."

"Okay. We’ll talk," he relented. She took a step closer to him, afraid suddenly that he would disappear into the air if she was too far away. Her fears of losing him were palpable and no longer unreasonable.

"What do you want, Revas? What do you really want?" she asked him gently. "What do you want for yourself? For us?"

His forehead creased as he frowned at the question, and he cradled his chin in his hand, his other holding his elbow, deep in thought as he attempted to come up with an answer. Elain waited patiently. 

"I guess..." he started, then paused and took a deep breath, "I guess I want to be my own person. I don't want to listen to orders and spend my life building you up. I thought I could handle it. I really did. I thought--I thought that if I was your Shadow, being together would fulfill me. Just being with you with erase all the other problems. I see now that it's not how it's going to work. I felt like I was in a cage, and no matter what I did, the bars only got smaller and smaller. I was suffocating."

He dropped his hand from his chin and looked at her sadly, "You were my cage. And I blamed you, didn't I? Blamed you for trapping me. It's why I was so crushed when you turned down my proposal. I believed with all my heart that if we were together, you'd finally treat me as your equal, as your partner...as more than your lover. But it was wrong. I was wrong. I let myself believe you'd change if I just--if I just worked harder. Devoted myself more. Proved that I was the only one who was worthy of you. I could've stopped it at any time, though. I just didn't. It was my own fault."

"It wasn't," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, "I _did_ use you. I strung you along, knowing one day your will would break. I was cruel."

Her tears nearly blinded her, and she shook her head to remind herself that it was not the time for self pity. 

"Even if you were cruel...by the Creators, I loved you all the same," he admitted. "I loved you and flew to you like a moth to a flame, burning my own wings. You were wrong to do it, but I was wrong to allow it. I shouldn't have forgotten how dangerous it all was."

There was a finality to his explanation, spoken as if it was already in the past. Her heart felt defeated. She had been too late and it was all lost to time.

"And that's what you want? To be Warlord so that you can escape my flame?"

Revas now took a step closer to her, near enough she could reach her hand out only slightly and touch him. The temptation to do so was painful, and it took all her willpower to refrain from it. 

"I want to be Warlord so I can stop serving. I want it because I feel like it's what I was meant for. Protecting the hunters, protecting our clan, protecting our People, protecting our son. I want it because it's the peak of the mountain, and I spent too long serving in your lush forests to find my own challenge. This is it. I feel it in my bones."

"It suits you," she said, resigned now entirely to things ever being like they were. He was not her Banal’ras anymore. She doubted she was anything to him anymore. "You always held command admirably." 

"That feels like like you already made up your mind about what I want for us."

Elain looked down at the floor, afraid she'd break down and beg if she did not, "No. I just feel I already know what your answer is."

"Do you?" his eyes searched her face for her conviction, but she was sure all he found was skin stained with tears and a spirit drained of its livelihood. "Why don't you tell me what you want, Elain? For yourself. For us."

Part of her knew what she could say to turn his heart and keep him in her clutches. She had manipulated him for more and achieved her ends, and what he wanted to hear was all too simple to produce. But she could not do that to him. Not anymore. Whatever she said, let it be the truth. 

"What I want?" she braced her very soul for what she had to say, calling up courage for him and only him. "I want to rule Wycome. I want you to stay as my Banal'ras. I want to make the Council powerless and to crush my brother beneath my heel. I want to hear the crows sing their Death songs as all my enemies are laid to waste, and I want to repeat Wycome in every city of the Free Marches. I want the world to quake underneath me, I want to take this land back from the shemlen in the name of the Earthshaker and reign in the name of the Lady of the Hunt. I want it all, Revas. And I have wanted it badly."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she continued, undeterred, "But it isn't what I _need_. I have always had difficulty distinguishing the two. My heart thirsts, and my hand reaches, but no drink will ever quench me and no magic item of power will ever find itself in my grasp. My wants have destroyed me and everything I hold dear. They have made me my own worst enemy. It is what I truly need that I should deliberate on now."

She looked up at him, staring into his eyes, just as red and swollen as hers, "And what I need is _you_. I can never find happiness in my reach, because it will never be enough. I could rule Thedas on a golden throne, and it would not be enough. The ambition will never go away and I can not wish it were so. It's part of who I am, just as ingrained as my passion and my abilities. But...but I can see a future without me sitting on a throne. I can see a future without me ruling the land with an iron fist. I can see a future without me standing over the cowering masses. I can even see a future without my Mantle, should it be taken from me..."

She paused, inhaling deeply.

"But I cannot see a future without you."

His chin quivered at the words, and she finally reached out, unable to keep herself from touching him any longer. Her hand settled on his jaw, and he leaned into it, closing his eyes.

"Anything I earn is all the sweeter with you to share it with," she whispered. "And that's the future I want. The one with sweetness, not secrets. With words like this, not ones full of distrust and accusations. The one where we are both happy together because we can be. The one where we learn to love each other like we were always supposed to."

The words filled her heart and emboldened her. She was still scared, oh so scared, but she wanted everything with him, for him. She wanted to see him reach his potential and become the man she knew he could be. She wanted to share his joy and stand by him in his failures. She wanted...she wanted to worship him like he had done all these years.

She began to cry again and grasped his jaw between both her hands, "And I do love you. Oh, I love you! I've always loved you. So madly, so deeply. I wanted so much, so much! But I couldn't bear to give you up for it. You're my everything, Revas. We've made so many mistakes, but I still love you with all that I am. I've scorned my Goddess so that I could see your smile, hear your voice. Please, please please," she shook her head as the tears streamed down her face, "Please tell me you want to try again."

His tears could not be restained either, and he touched his forehead to his as he sobbed.

“All I ever wanted was you. To be with you, to love you, to live my life with you,” he whispered to her, his voice strained under the weight of his emotion, “Nothing else. I want to try. I want us to love each other like we're supposed to, but I need to know you mean all this, Elain. I can't let my heart be broken again. You can’t just keep depending on me, needing me. You have to _want_ this too."

Elain lowered her hands from his face, then took his hand in hers; gently, as if he was glass, as if he would shatter, as if his fragile form would disintegrate under her touch if she did not exercise care. It would hurt to see him break now, after all this, after all they had been through. She took that hand as if it were his heart, bare and open, beating and aching, and she brought it to clasp that held her Mantle shut. Carefully, she worked loose the pin that locked it, guiding his hand with hers, so that she did not have to do it alone. 

Revas whimpered at the movement and trembled in her hands. That also ached, but she was not done. Like her baptism before, the cleansing could not be complete, the ritual could not be sanctified...none of it could be worth anything unless she followed through. The clasp unlocked, and she let both their hands drop.

Elain did not flinch when the Mantle fell to the floor.

“I want it more than anything this world and the Beyond could provide.”

He stood before her in shock, his eyes wide, his chest heaving from his crying, his mouth contorted in the pain and the serenity of the moment. It felt as if time had stood still, as if the world itself stood still. Elain stood before him, vulnerable, raw, more bare than she had ever been, and despite it all, she felt safe. This is what she wanted. She did not even have to convince herself anymore. This was all she wanted.

“Elain…Elain…” he breathed the words in disbelief, and she wanted to comfort him for it.

"May I touch you?" she asked him, her voice quaking. He nodded his consent.

She rose her hands to his face again, gliding the fingertips over all the planes therein. His cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the vallaslin that crested over his forehead, his quivering lips. Elain stared at him intently, taking in every detail. He was so lovely, so beautiful.

"May I kiss you?" Another nod.

When her lips touched his, it felt like their first time all over again. They both were unsure of what to do, who should move first, the old rhythm that was once there now lost. But just like their first kiss, it felt new and exciting and tender. His top lip found its way between hers, and they explored each other tenderly, softly, learning how to express everything anew. 

They closed their eyes, but her fingers did not leave his face, and she ran the pad of her thumb lightly over the trails of tears he left; then, over the closed eyelids. He sighed into her mouth at the movement, and they learned again how to say everything with just their kiss; only this time, the things they said felt more intense, more real. It was no longer placations and apologies and love to be hidden from the world. This was real. It was open. It was their future on moist skin and wet tongues. 

And as often happens with kisses such as these, a spark ignited a fire, and it blazed through Elain's blood. She felt it pumping with every heartbeat and felt it burning inside her, pushing her to explore him more. To worship him more.

She broke their kiss and brought her fingertip to his chin, "May I kiss here?"

"Yes," he said breathlessly. 

Elain brought her mouth there and discovered the enjoyment of tracing along his jaw with her lips. It was long, and full, and he lifted his chin up so she could fully explore it. But the movement drew her attention to the expanse of his neck; enticingly long, with the round knob of his throat exposed and waiting for her. She dragged her lips down that taut skin slowly, letting the tip of her tongue wet a trail for her, and pursing her lips ever so slightly, she blew softly with her hot breath on his skin. 

It caused him to moan softly, and it was like honey fresh from the comb: all sickly sweet and dripping, but so, so delicious. Her lips opened, and she kissed his neck like his mouth, drawing even more moans from him, causing her to crave all the more of that intoxicating honey that was his very essence. Elain attempted to ignore them, though. Instead, she gorged herself on his skin, sucking and licking it to feed this hunger that was growing inside of her. 

But that hunger only grew more ravenous, and she was compelled to find more to devour.

"May I take off your shirt?" she asked him between hot, full kisses on the now bruising skin of his neck. He answered by taking her hands in his and guiding them to the hem of his undershirt.

Elain lifted it swiftly over his head, eager to explore, throwing the piece of clothing aggressively to the floor, but when she took him in before her, she was hit all at once with a need to take her time. She could not properly worship all that he was if she didn't at least try to savor it. 

So she ran her fingers down the deep scar in the center of his chest, her mind filling once again with memories of times past and wounds inflicted. He earned this scar for her, wore it proudly for her, was ready to give his life for her. Oh, how she had nearly wasted it all. 

But he shivered when she touched it, when she let the tip of her nail graze the raised tissue, and she refocused her attention on him. There was still time to make everything right. Still time to create new memories and build a new love. And she wanted to so badly. 

Elain tasted that love on his skin when she kissed his scar; she tasted it when she kissed his shoulders, his clavicle, his stomach; she tasted it when she ran her tongue on the outside of his scar, down the lines of his abdomen, around his navel, and even further down still; she tasted it when she nipped at his hips; she felt it burn when she bit at the seam of his pants, pulling on it with her teeth, causing him to thrust his hips unconsciously, however slight it was. The love tasted so wonderful and new, and that same lingering flavor of honey filled her mouth to the brim. 

"May I take off your pants?"

He helped her with those, unlacing the leather front, then assisting as she pulled them down his hips, down his thighs, down his calves, until they set in a pile on the ground. He kicked them away and stood before her now, naked and open, and her eyes drank him in. 

She wanted to touch him everywhere. Everywhere there was skin, everywhere there was supple flesh, taut muscle; she wanted to touch the sheared hair next to the long straight strands that flowed from his head, and she wanted to touch the slightly curling hair that grew in a light blonde tuft on his pubis. She wanted to trace her finger over every freckle, every knick, every scar, and she wanted to memorize every bit of the deity she was worshipping.

So she did. Elain walked around him slowly, never taking her hands off of his naked form, leaving trails of wet kisses everywhere she went. The spaces between his ribs, the curve of his spine, even the firm flesh of his ass mesmerized her, and her cheeks burned at all the things she wanted to do to him. 

But she paused when she saw the raised tissue on his back, lighter and pinker than the rest of his skin, carved at one time to resemble a bow and arrows in flight as a dedication to his devotion. It was skin supposed to be shed for the Mother of Hares, a sacrifice to the Great Goddess, but she knew better. Revas had done it for her, always her, and though he was misguided in his reasons, it was just another reminder of the love he carried on both his body and his soul for so long. A love she had taken for granted.

She kissed those scars more tenderly than any other part of him. Her lips found their way over the arcing bow, the drawn string, the shafts of the arrows, but her hands crawled around his torso to find another shaft; one that had grown tantalizing hard at her exploration. He moaned when she ran a fingertip along the underside of his cock at the same time she flicked the tip of his carved arrow with her tongue, then whispered unintelligible words as she drew circles on his frenulum with the precum that dripped from the tip of his cock. 

His whole body trembled underneath her as she worked, and it made her nearly delirious. Had it always been like this? She wasn't sure. This felt new, but hadn't they done this all so much...Elain didn't want to dwell on it. All she knew was that they both wanted to try, and as long as he said _'yes'_ , she could continue to find these things out. 

Elain stood on the tips of her toes and ran her tongue along the shell of his ear, "May I taste you?" She wrapped her hand around his cock and squeezed gently to give him an indication of what exactly she wanted.

"Gods, yes," he groaned. 

And so she did. Elain turned him by his shoulder gently, and when he faced her once more, she slowly lowered herself to her knees. This was her altar now; she laid sacraments on his thighs, his hips, on the sensitive skin where his waist and legs met. She dragged her teeth along that skin, then kissed it, then opened her mouth to suck on it, leaving proof of her penance in the tiny bits of blood that rose to the subsurface of his skin. He sucked air through his teeth when she did and thrust himself towards her face out of reflex. The tip of his cock brushed the underside of her jaw, tempting her, and she was woefully unprepared to resist. 

Instead, she grasped onto the shaft and wrapped her lips around the tip. He tasted salty, but so distinctly him. So many things they could start over on, but the memories of his taste, his smell...that would never leave. They would coax her back to his sacred person again and again, like the brilliant light leading a boat to shore. And she would not resist that beautiful light either; she brought her mouth down over the head of his cock, teasing that frenulum again, this time with her tongue, and his moans were music. Sweet, sweet music, a hymn in her ears. 

She wanted the song to carry on, to reach a crescendo, so she made short work of it. Her hand stroked upwards while her mouth moved downwards, working in unison to bring out the most lilting note. A groan, pure and guttural, then a gasp, and mumbled words under his breath; lyrics to his song, and more of that delectable honey of his pleasure. But this honey wasn’t his skin, but the resonance of the tone in his voice, notes carried through the air and slinking inside her ears, where they found purchase. 

It _hadn’t_ always been like this, she decided. There wasn’t always that sweetness, that untarnished love that glimmered golden and pristine, and she knew it could never stay this way either. It was foolish to think so, but she was strangely comforted by that. That there was a familiarity that would return, things wouldn’t always be new, that sometimes they would just be...Elain and Revas. 

She swallowed him deeper, and looked up at him. _Elain and Revas._

His hand found the hair at the crown of her head, and he tangled his fingers in there, all while meeting her eyes. The brows were furrowed, and his mouth contorted at the pleasure of her motions. _Elain and Revas._

Just them. 

His movements became more urgent, his moans more urgent, and she was tempted to let him finish without going any further. But even as she promised herself to work harder for him, to be better for him, that voice that always spoke so loudly for her shouted the need for her own satiation, her own release. She would have to learn to suppress the more selfish demands, but in situations like this, it did not hurt to burn for something shared between them. 

Elain slowly drew her mouth off his shaft and rose from her position on the ground. He looked on her in dreadful need, and she pressed her lips to his once more, this time far more frantically. Revas wrapped his arms around her tightly, digging his fingers into her flesh through her clothing, and a moan escaped her mouth. 

“May I make love to you?” she asked him huskily, her lips brushing against as she did so. 

“Yes.” He nodded his head as he agreed, their noses touching one another, lips touching one another, hands touching one another. 

She led him the short distance to the bed, and guided him to lay down for her. He was happy to listen, and reclined back, only settling himself on his elbows so he could look up at her at the end of the bed. Elain smiled as he did so, one full of longing and love and anticipation, and saw that the corners of his mouth turned upwards in response. 

There was no need to hesitate. She undressed herself quickly, throwing the layers of clothes haphazardly, but never taking her eyes off of his. He beckoned her to the bed to join him with a wave of his hand, and once released entirely from the confines of her clothes, she crawled her way to him, kissing and nipping at him as she did so. He drew his hands to her waist to guide her, and their mouths met again, hungry to taste, to explore, to rediscover.

She straddled him, one thigh on each side of his waist, and with no delay, lowered herself onto him slowly. Her breath hitched as she did so, her chest heaved, and her hips rolled against the sensation of him filling her. It had been weeks since Heliwr’s birth; weeks since they’d been able to do this. She had almost forgotten how much she loved it. 

And oh how she loved it! How she loved to watch his eyes close and his mouth open, his teeth only just showing through; how she loved to see a red blush creep up his body as she ground herself on him, settling her hands on his, spurring her movements on when his nails dug in her skin there; how she loved his eager noises, his tension that coiled and tightened his tendons and muscles, his furrowed brow and his arms straining as he tried to hold her. There was so much time she had wasted not reciprocating the worship he gave her, not fully enjoying everything he had to offer. 

She would was no more time, and would spend every moment he'd allow trying to make up for it. 

Her heart beat faster as the pleasure crested inside of her, but she did not quicken her pace. Instead, she kept steady, rising and falling on him, then grinding against him, holding him inside of her, only to start over again. It would not last long. Neither of them wanted to hold back, to prolong this pact written in tangled limbs and sweat and tears. Their bodies would not allow it. Their souls would not allow it.

Elain felt an end approaching faster than pulse beating in her chest, faster than the deep breaths Revas inhaled, faster than the progression of the night. She lifted his arms off her waist and gently pinned them over his head. Her fingers interlocked with his, rather than holding him down, and she leaned over him entirely, bringing her face to his and moaning into his mouth as she worked them both towards that end. 

He groaned loudly, encouraging her, igniting her, and then kissed her back with an intensity and flowed down her whole body, stoking the flames that already burned her up. She could not last much longer, there was no will to hold it in. 

"Elain, Elain, Elain," he said her name like a whispered prayer, and she blessed him by moving her hips faster. His arms strained underneath hers, his body rose to meet her, his moans became wantful whimpers. Her hair fell over him, blanketing him, making his face the only thing she saw, and it was as if she had found the light in dark night. It was all too much. She held steady, moving him in and out of her with each gyration, conjuring all the strength she had to not give in to her release. 

But he was hanging on by a thread. Thin and tenuous, pulled to an impossible tension, so near to breaking. His whole body stiffened under her, that thread on the path to snapping.

"I'm going to...I'm going to..." he gasped, clenching his fingers even tighter around hers. 

"With me," she said softly before laying her mouth on his once more. Let everything she felt flow out into him. Let him know how much it means. Let him know that he was more than enough. He was everything.

She cried into his mouth as her orgasm rocked her. It was a tremor that shook her entirety, moving in time with her heartbeat, washing over her like the warmest water, like the most soothing bath. And with it, he came as well. Spilling inside of her, whispering her name into her lips, his hips rising to meet her, and the creeping flush of red crawling down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. It was intense and long deserved, and somehow, brand new. They were left gasping and wordless, lost to everything but the lust they had given into to nurture the budding love they were trying to make grow. It needed more than this to flourish, but it was a start.

Elain rolled off of him, and with gentle care, grabbed the warm wool blanket that laid to the side of them and pulled it over them both. Revas wrapped her up in his arms like the blanket wrapped them, and pulled her close to his chest, showering her face and hair with tender kisses. 

"I love you," he confessed to her, "I want to stay like this."

"I do too," she replied softly, laying her own kisses on him. His nose, his chin, his eyelids. "We have to figure out how to make it work."

"Can't it just work like this?"

Elain ran her finger tips up lightly up and down his back and nestled her head into his neck, "If only. Wouldn't that be wonderful? That only our bodies were needed to fix everything."

"We'd never leave the bed."

She giggled, "And get absolutely nothing accomplished."

Another round of kisses, these ones on the top of her head, "You say it like it's a bad thing."

"As wonderful as it sounds, it would also mean that when problems arise again, we'd be unprepared to face them," she replied sadly. "We need to learn to do more than absolve ourselves through sex."

His hand settled on her lower back, where he draw small circles and sent shivers up her spine, "I know. But where do we start?"

"Maybe we start with communicating? And trusting one another. Learning to say our apologies and meaning them," she suggested. 

"Yeah. I like the sound of that," he murmured. "When you asked me what I wanted, it felt like something new. Like I finally had a choice. It wasn't just following your lead and hoping you'd open your eyes and see me. You were finally concerned about what I cared about. We should do more of that too."

"And though it hurt me, I needed to hear the truth from you. I needed to hear how much _you_ hurt. I am..." the tears formed in her eyes again, and she let them come, "I am trying to do better. I am trying to address my own faults, but I am not infallible. Give me time and patience, and I will give you the same."

"I can deal with that," he assured her, but when quiet after. She sensed he was thinking of something to bring up, to speak with her about, and she waited for him to conjure the courage. 

"The Mantle...what did that mean?"

Elain took a deep breath, knowing this question would come, "I meant what I said. I can look in a future and see myself living without the Mantle. I cannot say the same for a future without you. I will not stop fighting for my title and all that I've earned, but I can no longer do it at your expense. At the expense of our future. A piece of clothing cannot replace the love of you and my family and friends, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise."

"What brought all this on?"

"Being faced with my actions catching up with me. Being told hard truths and being forced to swallow them. I'm not perfect. Blessed Andruil, far from it. But I can no longer pretend to not see the havoc I cause. And I can no longer blame anyone else for my own downfall. It's always been me sabotaging myself, not the world trying to ruin me."

"Hmm," he mused on the confession and played with a bead in her hair as he did, "So a new start then? With a new Elain who understands her faults better?"

"That's the hope."

"I still think you won't be able to help yourself from reaching," he said, "You can change lots of things, but a person can't change their bones."

She laughed, "I know. I am hoping that with you as Warlord, you'll keep me in check."

"Yeah? You going to listen to my orders?"

"Not necessarily," she answered lightly, "but I need someone with more dedication than Den had to keep me from reaching too far."

"And I need you to stop me from running into situations half-cocked and making a fool of myself," he added. Elain smiled up at him.

"Yes. A true partnership. Not like before."

"It'll be a long road. This stuff doesn't just happen overnight," he warned her. 

"I know. But in order to start a journey, one must take the first steps out on the road." She kissed the underside of his chin, "And the journey looks far less daunting when I have you walking it with me."

"You're the only person I want to walk that road with, Peach."

Elain thought quietly on those words, and the words she had said as well. There were no doubtedly going to be problems to overcome, more fights in the future, more struggles and more turmoil, but she felt...optimistic. As if a burden had been lifted from her. 

Perhaps Nellia had been right all along. Perhaps she could just be Elain. The Maiden was just as much part of her as all the other experience she carried on herself, but it wasn't everything she was. Nor was it everything she could be. The idea, the simple concept, that she could be more than the Mantle, more than what she had so long ago decided...it made her heart feel lighter. The world felt lighter. The room she lay in felt lighter. And the face she looked upon with adoration was all light, all beauty, all the possibilities and all the potential failures personified. He was something to share herself for, to expose herself for, to let herself be vulnerable for. She could be Elain, and he would love her for it. 

It took her breath away.

"May I marry you?" 

She whispered the words adoringly, earnestly, whole-heartedly, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. 

"What?" he asked, confusion painting his voice, "You already said--"

"I was scared. I was scared of my love for you being what would destroy me. I was scared of my brother taking everything from me. I was scared of losing all I worked for. So much so, that I overlooked entirely what it meant to you. Not just the act itself, but the symbolism. What it stood for."

"But Elain--" She pressed two gentle fingers to his lips. 

"I can't give you the idyllic life you wanted," she continued, desperate to explain herself. "I cannot be the doting bride who will do nothing but care for our son and watch you achieve your goals. I cannot sit still and wait for glory to happen around me. I am too stubborn and prideful for that. I cannot even promise that I will be allowed to stay among our people, once my fate is decided. But I want to promise something. So that you know. So the question of how committed I am to this never graces your thoughts, even if I do stumble."

"I don't need you to..."

Elain sat up, settling herself on her knees, then carefully pulled the halla necklace that always sat around her neck over her head. She cradled it in her hands, feeling the smooth ivory in her palms, and looked at him with eager eyes. The rites were old and muddled in her mind, but she would try her best.

_Ma vhenan dirthara atish'an_

_Emma enaste lath_

_Tel'hanin, tel'enasalin_

_Tel banal, tel enaste_

_Ser lath dirthavaren selah_

_La lath elvhenan ethghilas_

_Shiral bellanaris ethsumeil_

She brought the ivory halla to her mouth and laid a sanctifying kiss upon its tiny form, then set her open palms out in front of Revas.

"You don't have to accept. I will understand. I just needed to you to know."

He said nothing, but instead, sat up next to her, his eyes fixed on hers, but his face expressionless. With one swift motion, he mimicked her, lifting the onyx halla she carved for him so long ago over his head, and held it in his hands like the most sacred treasure.

_Ma vhenan dirthara atish'an_

_Emma enaste lath_

_Tel'hanin, tel'enasalin_

_Tel banal, tel enaste_

_Ser lath dirthavaren selah_

_La lath elvhenan ethghilas_

_Shiral bellanaris ethsumeil_

She cried again when he said the words, the salty tears falling over her cheeks and nose and into her mouth. They came all the harder when he brought the onyx halla to his lips to kiss it as well. 

In unison, they each lifted their necklaces. Elain reached up and hung the ivory one around his neck, and he let the onyx one fall over hers. They said the words once more to consecrate it, even if no one else but them could hear them, and stared at each other in awe when they were finished. They'd been through the fires and come out alive, still desperately in love, still willing to fight for each other, and there was more comfort and peace in that than she could ever hope for. 

They spoke no more words, and instead fell into the bed once more, all hot breaths and needful moans, until they were both spent to the point of exhaustion. It was deep into the night before they finally fell asleep, their bodies soaked in sweat and tears, whispering affirmations and adoration to each other until neither could force their eyes open.

Elain slept safely in Revas, and for the first time in a very long while, it was without dreams.

\---

It was not yet dawn when a loud knocking interrupted Elain's slumber. She opened her eyes slowly, and looking out through the balcony of the suite, saw that the sun still slept beyond the horizon, covering the world in darkness. It was all too tempting to just ignore the intruder and reclaim the quiet peace that had been rudely taken from her.

" _Revas!_ _Revas, you need to wake up!_ "

The knocking only grew louder and more frantic, and Elain recognized Twig's voice on the other side. Revas stirred next to her at the sound of his name, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. 

"I'm up!" he yelled out to his friend, but she snuggled herself up against him, kissing his sides, still not ready to leave her warm bed. 

Twig burst through the doors like a spooked halla, all wide eyes and reckless fear. He stopped when he saw them both in the bed, as if he were surprised, but quickly discarded any timidness that might make him turn away.

"You gotta get dressed. There's an emergency."

"What the fuck happened?" Revas asked him impatiently as he reached over the side of the bed to recover his clothing. 

"Our Ethinan intercepted a message from the steppes from Hellan. It was addressed to her father."

"Why'd we intercept that? Threlen isn't plotting anything against us with his daughter," he pulled the shirt over his head and Elain was bereft for it. There would be no more sleeping apparently. 

"Maybe she's trying to draw him back to the main settlement for Paeris?" Elain posited as she yawned. 

"We intercepted it because there were two coming in. One to Threlen and one to Keeper Paeris. We thought we were grabbing the one for Paeris," Twig answered gravely, "That means Paeris' missive is already in his hands. And it's bad."

"Why? What did it say?" Revas questioned him as he pulled his pants up over his waist.

Twig's face turned drastically, from fear and mania to utter despair, tears already falling from his eyes and his mouth turned to a painful grimace. He covered his eyes with his hand, frightening Elain.

"Gods, I can't..."

"Twig, what the fuck is going on?" he was losing his patience, but Elain's heart was racing, afraid of what was to come. It had all been too good to be true. They lived in a dream for only a few hours, and now...now, reality must set in once again.

"Revas...Llyn’s dead."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> my heart seeks true peace  
> within blessings of love  
> not in glory, not in victory  
> not in nothingness, not in favors  
> For love promises all these things  
> And grants our hearts safe passage  
> towards eternity together


	58. Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar'een learns of Llyn's fate and goes to find answers.

_“Sleeping too much makes it easier for the Dread Wolf to stalk your dreams!”_

It was an old Dalish saying, one that elders and leaders in the clan told children who wanted to nap away their days when there was work to be done. And among the clan, there was always work to be done. Yurts must be aired out, clothing must be cleaned and mended, food must be prepared, fires needed tended to, hunting had to be done...the list of work was seemingly endless, and for all their insistence of being varied and independent, any self-described Dalish elf would blanche at the thought of being described as ‘lazy’. There was no more fight-worthy insult than calling your fellow clan member a layabout.

But, by Mythal, what Sar’een wouldn’t do now for a full night’s rest.

She poured herself a cup of tea from a silver pot that she had left on the table of her tiny makeshift quarters, then picked up the cup and brought it to her lips. It was nothing spectacular, or even gourmet. Just plain thistle tea brewed hastily as she tried to wake herself up. 

Elain sat the on the bed of her room, staring at her with wide, swollen eyes and a trembling hand clutched around a missive with a broken seal. A missive that was meant for Warlord Threlen, as she had explained. The contents of the missive were tragic, heartbreaking, and when she heard the news of Llyn’s demise, she knew that what little amount of sleep she had gotten before the Maiden’s unceremonious arrival would be the last bit she would have for some time.

“Did it say how he died?” Sar’een asked her quietly. She remembered the Ethinan well. He was timid for a leader and far too invested in trying to please everyone. So invested, he had no qualms in joining in on Revas’ incessant bullying. What he was doing on the Steppes was a mystery, however.

“A casualty of a clash between Clan Diceni and Clan Abersher’al. They’re sending his body back to our hunting grounds now,” she answered her. Elain seemed drained and strangely melancholic. No doubt it had been a long night for her as well. “I don’t believe it though. Clan Abersher’al follow the Vir Atish’an and are led by the Blood of the Embers on that Path. She would never sanction an attack.”

“And Hellan sent it?”

Elain nodded, “Yes.”

Sar’een took another sip of her tea and leaned across the small desk opposite of her bed, “It doesn’t make any sense. Clan feuds happen all the time, but the Blood of the Embers is the one who usually steps in the mediate. The Triumvirate is cautious to a fault, in that regard. And why was Llyn even there?”

“It was my fault,” Elain’s voice cracked as she began to explain, “I sent him on a mission. Revas and I recruited a couple of spies in the Diceni to spread rumors about our affair, to make us seem like a romantic love story. It was supposed to make it harder for Paeris to take the Mantle from me.”

“Oh, Elain,” Sar’een sighed. Of course she was behind this. Of course. And of course only the Maiden would be brazen enough to think she could enact subterfuge under Paeris’ discerning nose.

“It didn’t work like I had planned. Paeris discovered the spies and took one of them hostage to sabotage my efforts. She escaped though. We found her exhausted and emaciated on our hunting grounds. He was going to try to use her to undermine me and have me stripped of the Mantle. I was…”

Elain looked distraught, the obvious guilt of what happened weighing heavily on her. Still, she took a deep breath and soldiered on, “I was desperate. I needed to gain the upperhand over my brother. My title, my livelihood, my future...they were all on the line. The spy was returning to the Steppes to free her friend Paeris was holding, and I saw a chance to outflank him. I wrote a message to the Blood of the Embers, requesting her assistance in freeing the dissenting spies Paeris was holding in exchange for a boon of her choice. I assumed she would take it and demand more access to our cedar in Autini, since her clan lacks access to excess wood in the desert. I sent Llyn to escort the spy to make sure the message got to Abersher’al and to make sure the spies were freed from the Steppes. I wanted to fight fire with fire, and use Paeris’ own tactics against him. Those dissenting voices were meant to give credence to claims of Paeris abusing his power. Instead, there’s a blood feud. I don’t know how the clans ended up fighting or how Llyn ended up in the middle of it.” She began to cry, “Creators, if I had known, I would never have…”

“Hindsight is a trap laid by Dirthamen,” Sar’een reminded her softly, though that old saying held no comfort for her now either. “We have to decide what to do now.” 

Elain unrolled the missive again, “Hellan is requesting her father to return to the Steppes to coordinate a defense against Clan Abersher’al. She says Abersher’al sent scouts to undermine their treasury while he and the Keeper were gone, and they were discovered. One Abersher’al scout was captured and is being held, but Llyn got caught in the crossfire of the battle there. People will ask why he was there, and I will have to tell them it was I who instigated this. I’m complicit in starting a blood feud, Sar’een. I lost Llyn and I started a clan war.”

Sar’een drank deeply from her cup now, taking the warm tea down in heavy gulps. Another disaster, after a series of other disasters. Would there ever be a time she wasn’t fixing the problems of the world? She desperately hoped so. Sar’een wanted to be lazy for a little while. She wanted to sleep for long hours and not worry about the fate of thousands laying on her shoulders. Just a little rest for her weary soul, that’s all she prayed for.

“You did what you’re supposed to, Elain,” she assured her, even if she didn’t entirely believe it. Llyn’s death was a blow, but at the cusp of transformation in Wycome, she couldn’t afford the Maiden to break now. “It’s your job to answer our peoples’ call to action, even if you did plan to benefit from it. Until we understand everything that happened, it’s premature to say that it’s your fault.”

Elain wiped the tears from her cheeks and sighed, “I suppose you’re right. Until I know more, I can’t allow myself to get lost in my thoughts. I’ll try to focus on other things instead. Llyn’s funeral rites will have to be prepared, the city’s power must be put into place, the clan must be be readied to move back to our hunting grounds...there’s much for me to focus on.”

“Did you talk to Revas about the deal we made?”

She shook her head, “Not yet. I’m sorry Sar’een, but I had to reconcile other things with him first. We couldn’t keep going the way we were.”

Sar’een shrugged, but understood, “Just bring it up to him before the clan moves again. Getting Wycome stabilized is very important, and despite my thoughts on the matter, the interim Warlord has his part in it.”

“I promise I will,” Elain said, “but Llyn’s death is...it’s difficult. He was Revas’ friend. We all grew up together--”

“I know,” Sar’een replied sharply in her impatience. Of course she knew they grew up together. She was there, and Elain’s recurring excuses were becoming tiresome.

“Right. Of course. I’ll…” She stood up from the bed and managed to compose herself, “I’ll take care of it. This won’t impact the transition of power in Wycome. Despite his sway in the clans, Paeris hasn’t cultivated any relationships with the merchants and guilds here. Whatever happened on the Steppes is far away from the immediate problem of the city.”

“Yes,” Sar’een agreed. She downed the rest of her tea, leaving the dregs at the bottom of the cup. “Thank you for letting me know what happened. I don’t think there’s much I can do, but it’s better than having a surprise falling on my lap when I least expect it...again.”

“I’m truly sorry, Sar’een. I never intended this,” she said sadly. “All the more reason why my ruling Wycome would only lead to trouble. I hope you understand.”

She nodded her head, “I do.”

“Then I won’t keep you up any longer. I’m sure the Margrave will want his answer shortly after sunrise.”

“He will,” she affirmed, “and I want you to be there with me. I’ve already spoken to Sal and Deshanna, and they’re bringing the Guilds and the Council. I need as many unified voices there as possible so that Killian has no recourse.”

“I’ll be there. He will not take this city back without a fight,” Elain promised, then walked out the door and back into the night. 

Sar’een was glad to see her go, even if she was left alone with nothing but a single oil lamp burning and a pot of tea that was slowly getting cold. As much as she loved her friend, she had no illusions about how difficult she was to deal with at times and how much she truly did sabotage herself and everyone around her through her grand schemes and blind plots. Usually, she had enough foresight and cleverness to see her plans through with at least some success, but it had been foolish of her to try to fight an outward battle against Paeris.

She poured herself one more cup of the thistle tea, thinking deeply on the information she was given as it slipped past her lips. Wycome was important, yes, but feuding clans threatened to upend some of the stability Lady Volant and Ser Coban had expected Clan Lavellan to provide. If it was the Silures battling another small clan, or even Orlesian clans fighting over resources, it would not make a difference. But Clan Abersher’al was high clan of Nevarra, and their Triumvirate was incredibly powerful. Clan Diceni was high clan of the Free Marches, and the progress Keeper Paeris had made there was nothing to dismiss either. This blood feud may divide loyalties with the clans of the North and spill into something much, much larger.

It still didn’t make sense to her though. If there was brewing animosity, neither clan had ever showed signs of escalating the matters; and Clan Abersher’al were traditionalists and devotees to Sylaise. If a path could be found through Peace, they would do so above any other. Had she missed a feud brewing? Had she been so naive as First of the clan that she didn’t listen to the reports and briefings during Council meetings? Maybe it was because she had been away from her people since the Conclave, or maybe she had just...forgotten to care. 

A troublesome voice told her it was the latter. When a magister who walked into the Black City of Chantry lore came back to life and rained ruin on the world, it was hard to find the time to care about what petty politics where brewing amongst the clans. Sar’een was trying to see beyond disputes over hunting grounds and spies keeping an eye on Keepers and whose title was in danger and who was a rising star with their bold claims and lackluster deeds. She was trying to build a foundation for an elven revival from the ground up by giving them voices in government, in policy, in trade, and by granting the clans accessibility that wasn’t available before. She wanted to see them thrive as the world started to regroup after Corypheus’ destruction. It was far more important to her than any blood feud. 

It was still unsettling to her though. There had to be some piece she was missing, some information she was lacking. It couldn’t have all been to make the Maiden look bad. Her infant child brooked no arguments to how seriously she took her oaths of station, and among the heavy traditionalists that carried more political weight among the Dalish, that was damning enough. 

Sar’een set her tea down and decided it was time to seek out the answers. Once Wycome was resolved, she would be returning to Skyhold and planning her next move against Corypheus. She could not afford danger brewing in the North among her own people. It would threaten to destabilize everything she had set in place to change the world.

She opened the door to her room and made her way down the small hallway that led to the Nacre Palace’s atrium. It was empty in this dark hour of the night, but she could still hear far off sounds of utensils banging and the smell of the early ovens being lit. The all but skeletal kitchen staff would be throwing together a meal for all the displaced elves and humans of the city, and soon enough, the halls would fill with disparate souls waiting patiently for their share. It would do the Margrave good to see the display, she decided, and made a mental note to have Leliana take him through the atrium and main hall before they met for final negotiations. 

Sar’een turned right and followed the atrium to the main entrance of the palace, and pulled open a small door leading out into the courtyard. It was still cold, and she shivered under the chill, but knew it was only temporary. The person she was looking for would be in a makeshift camp on Poppy Avenue, and it wasn’t far from where she was. 

Among the wreckage of the noble district of Wycome, the Dalish who did not camp in the Nacre Palace set up their yurts and aravels and cooking fires. That part of the city still saw no changes since the coup, and it had be given minimal priority until trade was a sure thing again. Sar’een walked between the yurts, looking for something familiar, and finally spotted it off near a cracked and dry marble fountain. 

It was a yurt like all the others, but the hanging door was painted with bright red symbols signifying Elgar’nan and Mythal’s relationship as progenitors of The People: a tree entangled in brambles, nearly indistinguishable from where one started and one ended. It was a symbol used almost universally among clan Keepers and is meant to evoke a welcoming sight among the clans.

It made Sar’een feel safer too, just knowing that she could fall back on this authority above her when it came to Dalish matters. Here, she wasn’t the Inquisitor and leader of a powerful human organization bent on saving the world. Here, she was just Sar’een, a relatively unknown First to Clan Lavellan.

There was a light glowing from inside the yurt, and based on Elain’s emergency meeting, Sar’een assumed the occupant was up. She knocked gently on the wicker door hanging, then waited for an answer with her fists clenched at her sides.

Paeris pulled back the hanging and smiled at the sight of her.

“Little Dove. To what do I owe the pleasure such an early visit?”

The smell that wafted out from his yurt was so familiar; bitter herbs, wood smoke, parchment paper, and sweet incense, all mingling together to make the air perfumed with a scent that brought her back to her youth, her training, her innocence. Many an evening she spent in her mentor’s presence, listening to his words, mimicking his magic, transcribing his lectures, all while inhaling deeply that very essence that surrounded them on those peaceful nights. It was comforting and pleasing, and Sar’een hoped with everything she was that one day, she’d be able to feel that peace again.

It was a shame it couldn’t happen tonight. 

“I have matters I’d like to talk with you about, if that’s okay?” she asked him. A sudden shyness overtook her when she realized why she had come to speak with him. How desperate she must be to look to her old hahren for a comforting word again. 

Paeris bit his lip and furrowed his brow, “I see. I had hoped you would not be drawn into this mess. Did my sister come to you immediately, hoping you could save her once more? Such a short-sighted child,” he shook his head and sighed. “It does not matter. I know what you want to speak of and I know it is not a conversation that will go unnoticed here. Unless you have a place that you can assure me there will be no interlopers, no prying eyes and ears, then I’m afraid any discussion will have to be innocuous and formal.”

“Hmm,” she frowned at his quick dismissal. It was too much to hope for him to invite her in willingly. Even sillier to think their former closeness would make him speak freely. 

“I can always tell you a story, instead,” he jested with her, his smile returning, but she did not return the levity. It was imperative that they discussed the matters at hand, lest her anxiety over relations in the North eat at her mind when she needed it clear and focused. There must be something she could do to get him to talk.

The answer came quickly, and she nearly laughed at how simple of solution it was.

“There _is_ a place,” she held out her hand to him, encouraging him to take it. “Once you see it, you’ll be able to speak all you want.”

“Oh?” he placed his hand in hers, laughing while he did, and she grinned widely. 

“Yes. Come with me.”

\--

When Sar’een spoke the password into the Eluvian and it shut behind them, she felt her heart racing with excitement. For all the danger and politicking and tension that hung over Wycome, there was a simple thrill of pleasure in showing her mentor a piece of their shared history. 

The Crossroads were as they always were: light and dark, all at once, the sky every shifting, and the ruined roads of the Old Empire showing tantalizing glimpses into a past long since forgotten. Paeris stood in the middle of the quartz paved road, the path underneath him glimmering in the magic light that permeating throughout this in-between place, and he stared in disbelief at metal sculptures and collapsed infrastructure.

“This isn’t the Fade,” he said, thought it sounded as if he was speaking to himself. She answered anyways.

“No, it’s not.”

“But it’s not the waking world,” he added.

“It’s someplace in between them,” she explained. “The agent who opened the network up isn’t sure of what magic is at work here.”

“It’s powerful magic, to be sure,” he said in awe as he reached out and touched a stone statue of a dragon flanking a broken wall. “One that I have not seen before. But I feel it keenly. Do you?”

“Yes.”

He focused intently on the stone under his hand but continued to speak, “So this is how you traveled to quickly to Wycome. The paths are in between the mirrors. Is this what Mahariel and Tamlen saw when they discovered the corrupted on in the Brecilian? Or did that mirror lead somewhere terrible?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “All I know is it makes travel trivial. We can walk from the Tirashan to The Donarks in a day, and this is just the remnants. At the height of our Empire, there was no place our people could not touch.”

“It’s remarkable. Simply remarkable,” he murmured, then turned his attention on her. “You have acquired a powerful tool, Inquisitor. I hope you are of the right might to preserve it. If the shemlen think they can use this, then...well, you can only imagine what more we might lose.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I’ve taken the necessary precautions. Eluvians never stay in one place for very long, and only a handful know the password to activate them. All of them elves.”

“I hope it’s enough,” he conceded, but then crossed his arms over his chest. “As much as I would love to stay and study this, you came to me for answers, didn’t you? And this is as private as we could possibly get, yes? No one but our dead Empire to hear.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. It would do no good to fall into the trap of sentimentality. He was her mentor, her idol in many ways, but she was too tired to succumb to the immediate feelings of comfort and ease. Too tired and far too jaded now. “I’ve given you a place where you can speak freely and not worry about your words falling in the wrong hands, so there are no more excuses. Tell me the truth about what happened on the Steppes, Paeris.”

He nodded slowly, “It’s only right that I do. Taking me here has given me a sense of purpose and direction you could not imagine. But, I don’t think this is something you should have been involved in. You have Wycome to deal with. Petty clan politics shouldn’t concern you.”

“And yet, I’m concerned,” she answered dryly. “Llyn is dead and there’s talk of a blood feud between the two most stabilizing clans in the north. There is nothing ‘ _petty’_ about that.”

“Llyn’s death is a tragedy,” he said sadly, lowering his gaze towards the pile of masonry just off the path. It may have been a temple at one time, or a inn or a trade port. There was nothing but stone and dust now. “It should never have happened. I do not know the exact details on the situation, or why it went awry, but I can promise you I will find out from my wife as soon as I return to the Steppes. I never intended for anyone to die.”

“You planned this then,” she stated, not surprised in the least bit. Paeris always had some sort of plan in motion, some piece he was moving behind the scenes. His ambition was quieter than Elain’s, more patient, but no less damning. 

“Of course I did. The circumstances were perfect to set up a scene that would discredit two scions and bring scrutiny down on the rest. How could I resist?”

“Why would you even want to?” she pressed him. “Are you trying to undermine the Dalish? Sow chaos for some selfish end? Or are you trying to make things better, like I am? I’m lost, hahren. Please, guide me to where you are.”

His face softened at the remark, just as she knew it would, and she almost felt sick from it. Sar’een had not said the words out of innocence or ignorance, but rather, as a careful move to get him to be truthful in his explanation. Manipulation was not something she enjoyed, however. As soon as the ruse was set, her stomach turned at the thought of twisting Paeris’ feelings to get the response she wanted. It felt like her skin no longer fit, and the little girl she once was was suffocating underneath it. 

“I will tell you, Little Dove, though I doubt you will like what I have to say. You deserve respect --truth-- for all you’ve done here. It’s the least I can do,” he started, but his face went stony again. It was hard, solid, an unaffected frown gracing his mouth and a distant glare of unworldly light reflecting off his eyes. “You know that I’ve been working for many years in cultivating relationships with other clans, yes?” 

She nodded.

“It’s been difficult work. Many clans are hanging on by a single thread; unable to defend themselves, unable to feed themselves, unable to take care of their sick, their wounded. They are prey to bandits and slavers, and when they try to isolate themselves and hide, they become prey for supernatural things. Demons tearing small enclaves of Dalish apart, spirits being used for desperate purposes and turning Keepers on their own clans...even your friend Merrill learned the cost of trying to reclaim something lost to us, that could change everything for the Dalish, only to be rewarded with ostracization. For so long, stronger clans have stood by and watched these things happen, shrugging their shoulders and praying for miracles from the Creators when calls for help come. But prayers do not save our brethren. Prayers do not heal our sick, our malnourished, our dying. Prayers are empty motions, a performance to show piety and glorification for the Old Ways, while never confronting the problems that face us in this new world. I could not in good conscience stand by and watch this continually happen.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s why you choose to transfer to Clan Diceni. They have the power to help make a difference.”

“Yes,” he affirmed. “I was lured by Warlord Threlen’s promises of a united Dalish, with no dependence on morally corrupt merchants who took advantage of our need for food and cloth; with a self-sufficiency broad enough to sustain a larger community than what most clans are used to; with a militia force that could defend against human interlopers and slaver rings. Protection. Sustainability. Progress. I was intrigued, and more than a little humbled that he would reach out to me personally to replace their former Keeper. Even today, Threlen is highly respected and revered among the clans, and nearly worshipped among the hunters. It seemed like a dream; and it was in a way, because one day, I was forced to wake up.”

He stroked the visage of the dragon statue slowly with the tips of his fingers and sighed, “It came shortly after I arrived on the Steppes. The idyllic prosperity I was promised was a vision of the future Threlen had planned, not something he had made much headway into with the clan. What I found was a Council in disarray, scared of the Warlord and even more scared of the Keeper he had personally chosen. Those who did not align with Threlen’s interest gave me outright dissension, threatening to break off and start a sister clan should their voices not been heard. What I encountered there was the aftermath of a tyrant who turned a backwater, failing clan into a settlement, then tried to instill the representative principles all Dalish seemed to follow while still ruling with an iron fist. It was a mess.”

“Artisans who didn’t know how to till their newly won land from Threlen selling out himself and his hunters as soldiers of fortune. Wounded hunters with no dedicated healers to treat them and no path for them to move forward. Grain that was diseased, halla that were malnourished from being fed the grain. City elf refugees and displaced members from other clans begging for the safety of the Diceni’s aravels and hunters. The list goes on and on,” he waved his hand in frustration. “They suffered from the same trials and tribulations that many other clans did, and though Threlen had set an intriguing groundwork, it was far from the foundation I was expecting.”

“You always taught me to never shrink away from a challenge,” she reminded him, and he gave her a laugh in response. It hurt her heart to hear how genuine it was. She had truly missed their time together, no matter how much they had both grown in their years apart.

“How could I forget? And you know that I did not shrink away. No, I did not turn my head in fear in the slightest,” he went on. “Instead, I curled my hands around the problems I saw and grabbed them up, like our eagles who carry their prey in their sharp talons. I spread my wings and flew as well, sharply taking in all the intricacies and movements of the Diceni --as well as other clans-- below me. I became what I imagined our clan to be. I invoked the Earthshaker and made the very foundation Threlen built tremble underneath me, creating my vision anew. There were alliances made, trade routes struck, new techniques utilized, and a complete reversal of the former Council. Now, we had a dedicated voice to the people who work our land, one that spoke as loudly as the hunters. Wealth came in from trade, and our crops became abundant enough that we could sell them reliably. With that, came more land acquired from an emboldened militia, and the cycle starts fresh, with each month another for me to see my dream realized. In my short time among the Diceni, I turned a precarious situation into a prosperous clan that now houses nearly eight hundred Dalish. They call us a settlement. I call us the ideal. What all the clans should strive for.”

She stayed silent, letting him build himself up so he would reveal his plans more confidently, but she did not fail to notice how he left his methods of integrating more clans with the Diceni out. Giving failing and suffering clans no choice but to pledge fealty to Diceni or suffer a slow death. He was much more like Elain than he’d ever admit.

“These accomplishments have not come easily, however. I have been fought tooth and claw every step of the way. From cowardly Council members to non-commital Keepers to scions who hold immense authority and go nearly unchecked...what I have won has been a climb uphill, and for every leap I make forward, the precariousness of the surrounding politics of the nations of Thedas have pulled me back downwards to the earth. I have seen the future, have tasted of what it can offer, only to have the fruit of progress snatched away from me every time I pluck it from the tree. Still, I persisted. If the Dalish would work against me, then I would make it so they could not.”

“I began to fish for sympathetic clan leaders, find those willing to work with me in my goals, and cultivated those relationships. I doubled down on acquiring trade, even going as far as requesting the entire network of clans in Antiva to drop all their current deals with other clans to give the Diceni preference. I offered protection, Diceni militia members to escort their caravans as they crossed Antiva’s swamps and deserts to meet with merchants, as well as sustenance in grain supplies. And all we wanted in return was the superior healing reagents that Clan Banalderas’ alchemists brewed and the promise of easy access to it.”

“And they didn’t give it to you?” she assumed. Sar’een had a sinking feeling that she knew what direction his explanation was heading, and it scared her. It was hard to accept that this all was just a matter of pride.

But he looked at her out of the corner of his eye suspiciously, then set his gaze on the statue again, “They did. The High Keeper of the Antivan clans was all too eager. They had lost whole teams of hunters scouting ahead to slavers, and their numbers could not sustain their need to migrate. The situation was growing desperate, and they were quite willing to let the Diceni risk their lives instead. But what’s that old saying? _One spoiled apple rots the bushel_.”

“The Keeper of Clan Halival stood to lose wealth from the deal. He has contacts all over Thedas, and if he was forced to drop that method of trade, his couldn’t outfit his children in fine silks anymore. And that simply wouldn’t do, you see. In an effort to stop the deal, he called upon a Child of the Forge to approve the contract being presented. _Jun’iral_. You know her?”

“I know of her,” Sar’een answered. There was a faint picture of a woman with wispy, nearly-white blonde hair that entered her mind. That was all she could recall.

“She’s newly ascended. Only a Child of the Forge for about four years and a very close friend of Halival’s craftmaster. The craftmaster that happens to be the wife of the Keeper of Clan Halival.”

“Hmm,” she murmured before her face turned down in a frown. It was all too clear now.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “I do not need to tell you that Jun’iral declared the proposed contract as invalid, saying that there was too little protections for the clans against being extorted out of more supplies by the militia escorts. It was expected, of course. I could even live with the decision as it were and negotiate something else entirely. But Jun’iral wanted to make a statement to me and to any other leader among the Dalish who dares try to reach beyond the tiny, isolated realm we’ve created. She banned Clan Diceni from engaging in any more trade deals unless a Child of the Forge was present. When I protested and demanded a reason, her answer was merely, _‘When a one reaches too far into the fire, you cannot expect to walk away unburned_ ’.”

Sar’een’s initial assessment was right then: this was a matter of pride. Despite how he liked to project himself, Paeris was not humble in any regard. He knew his abilities and his limits better than anyone in the world, but he was not fond of self-reflection. Or at least, it wasn’t something he engaged in often. There were moments of humility in him, moments where he realized he had been mistaken or had pushed too far. The thin, gray strands of hair that crowned her head were a testament to that. But it seemed there was no little girl haunted by nightmares to coax guilt out of him in this situation. 

“It was an insult of the highest degree, Little Dove. To assume that our own people would extort goods as a way of what...gathering wealth? Intimidating Keepers? We were there to make the lives of both clans better, to expand and create a partnership and a network that would initiate more stability in the north than we’ve seen in a century! There was no reason to shut it down other than nepotism and handing out favors for friends! I even tried to appeal the decision with the High Keeper of the Dales, only to be told --once again!-- that the scion’s word is the last in this matter.”

His voice was rising with his anger, and Sar’een felt a cold run down her spine. Paeris rarely showed his emotions like this, and it was usually never a good omen. That his voice seemed to create a muffled echo in this dead place only made it more chilling.

“This is no way to move forward. Depending on the decisions of easily corrupted individuals, beyond judgment and scrutiny, who have no regard for the progress they are stepping on in order to further establish their absolute control. And it is not just on this particular Child of the Forge! I’ve watched The Hand of Vengeance falter again and again instead of taking direct action against the threats that are most dangerous to our people. I’ve watched the Last Breath spend months cataloguing empty, dilapidated ruins in the Dales while the clans there suffer from starvation and disease. I’ve watched as the Black Tongue warn all of us of evil portents to come, visions of death and destruction and pain, just so that the clans stay overly afraid and overly cautious, leaving the status quo firmly in place. They all have played their part in holding the Dalish back, and nothing, _nothing_ would ever get accomplished without some sort of resolution to this wretched plague on The People!”

“And Llyn dying is a solution?” she challenged him. He could not brush aside the death of an innocent hunter. It was Paeris’ pride that struck him down, as surely as any weapon. Of that Sar’een had no doubt. “We can’t make the Dalish as a whole function better by killing off those who disagree with us!”

“I told you I did not intend for anyone to die,” he responded swiftly. “And I doubt Llyn personally disagreed with me. He was a pawn used so that the Maiden could retain her title; that is all. If his blood is on anyone’s hands, it’s hers.”

“No one’s hands here are clean,” she said darkly. The callousness in which his life was regarded from both Elain and Paeris made her stomach turn.

“I will not argue that fact. Llyn should not have died, and I do bear much of the responsibility for that. I underestimated my sister. Or rather, overestimated her.”

“How?”

Paeris brought his hand to his chin and tapped his lips thoughtfully, “It will be easier if I explained everything in full, I think. Do you mind?”

She shook her head. This was important, and if she wanted to get the truth and resolve this, she needed her old mentor to cooperate. “I’m listening.”

Paeris turned his body to face her now, and uneasiness filled her mind at the sight . He stared her down, and any other time, it would be intimidating enough. But here...The Crossroads made him seem at immortal as it they were, as unknowable as they were, and as far gone.

“Very well,” he relented lightly, patronizingly, as if she had begged him for a story. “I was returning from Antiva and the debacle there when I heard the news of Elain’s...condition. The wound struck against my clan was fresh, and with that flesh in my heart still torn, word of her breaking her oaths set my mind in motion. I wanted a way to alleviate these constraints, you see. A way to move forward and eliminate the necessity of the scions and their regressive natures. My sister’s pregnancy provided the perfect opportunity. A disgraced scion would lend credence to my whisper campaign of their incompetency, and with some pushing, she would easily be stripped of her title. But the embarrassment in Antiva was too thorough, too infuriating. It wasn’t enough to see her fail, especially in such a lackluster way. A scion falling in love and having a child in opposition to oaths she took isn’t cause for scandal beyond hearthfire stories and gossip by the looms. I needed more. _Much more_. So I improvised.”

“Elain has always been easy for me to manipulate; her need to win against me has always been her undoing. She will thrash and swing her fists if she thinks I’m working to unravel her careful plots, and in doing so, she always grows desperate and makes mistakes. So getting her to do what I needed was simple enough. I knew there was a spy amongst our hunters’ ranks, and I suspected they were feeding her and other scions information. When another hunter came forward before I left for Antiva confirming this, I knew I had a opportunity to take Elain down, and other scions with her. It was only a matter of pushing her in the right direction.”

“So I did. I had the hunter turn double agent and feed myself and Elain’s spy information, as needed. Once I returned to Antiva, I set in motion plans to...persuade the spy to return to Autini and seek aid from Elain.”

“I don’t want to hear how you persuaded them, do I?” she asked quietly.

He frowned at the statement, “Nothing worse than my sister has done. Or the Warlords and other Keepers. Even you have had need to do things that hurt, just so you could cleanse the wound others have caused. Pain is not separate from healing, Little Dove. It is the only way to heal.”

Sar’een said nothing, but every moment, more of her heart shrank. She was afraid once this was done, there would be nothing left but dust. Paeris did not seem to care that she was silent.

“So yes, I did things to build the facade that I was taking the spy as prisoner, and yes, there were threats and actions of violence done. Nothing disfiguring, nothing long term, nothing that a Keeper with magic could not easily fix. And I knew that if this spy was let free, they would have Lavellan’s Keeper able to do that. It was an easy decision for me to make.”

“What was the point on letting the spy return to Elain? Surely you anticipated the Maiden would take action,” Sar’een asked, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized that it was unnecessary. Of course Paeris would have anticipated this. It would’ve been the mistake of an amateur to do otherwise. 

He all but confirmed it with the glare he shot her at the question, “Do not be obtuse, da’len. I taught you to think for yourself and come to the right conclusions, not to act as if you cannot parse a simple sentence. It is beneath you.”

At his reprimand, Sar’een seemed to shrink away. Her shoulders slumped and her face flinched despite herself, and that stirring uneasiness turned to outright mortification. She was brought back to a place she had nearly forgotten, and in her homesickness and desperation, her mind had somehow painted her mentor as the shining example of benevolent wisdom. His cruelty came thundering back into her mind though, and it was shocking how quickly it took her off guard. 

And Paeris would take advantage of that. He took his glare off her and turned his head towards the unending sky.

“I anticipated it. I would not make such a gamble if I had not believed with utmost certainty what the Maiden would do. I released the spy, knowing they would flee to my sister, and once there, she would be unable to resist the bait to undermine me. The Maiden would call upon her authority and seek assistance in liberating the spy’s colleague, all in the name of justice against an unjust Keeper. Of course, she’d never say aloud that her success would liberate her from my judgment and allow her to keep her Mantle, but that is besides the point.”

Sar’een’s fear rose inside her chest, and she wanted to be anywhere but standing there in the moment. The decay and emptiness of this place suffocated her now, while it only seemed to make Paeris stronger. What she wouldn’t do to escape from it all. But she sighed, knowing she had no choice in the matter. The Inquisitor was not allowed to run away and hide.

“Ultimately, whether Elain keeps her title or not matters little to me though. Even before Wycome, it did not matter. What mattered is who she would take down with her in her desperate flailing. I knew that sending the spy back to the Steppes alone wouldn’t be an option for her. Neither would sending her own hunters to…” he paused, searching for the word, “... _liberate_ my double agent. Her standing in the clan would be precarious, and asking the Warlord to sanction that would be a fool’s errand. Not even Den would allow it. But the Maiden is not without means, and most definitely not without friends. What do you think I anticipated next?”

“I don’t know,” she answered timidly. 

"I do not believe for a moment that you do not know da'len," he said sharply, and the glow of the Crossroads took on a sinister reflection in his eyes, frightening her, "but I will feed you the answer anyways. Listen carefully, for I have no patience for willfulness, and you have no time to spend anymore lingering on questions you already know the answers to."

She gulped deeply and nodded her head, unable to answer any other way.

"The Maiden is a powerful scion, to be clear. Very powerful. Old Bida built a strong network of relations with local cities and villages in the Free Marches, but Elain sought a different route in her work. A network of allies in Warlords, in their lead hunters, built from here to the Kocari Wilds. Very few notable clans don't look to her to satisfy their needs for protection; from bandits, raiders, slavers, even other clans...they all see in her way to resolve all their martial problems with as little of their blood shed as possible. But she does not work alone in maintaining safety among the clans. Elain depends heavily on her Sister Scion.”

“Ellya of Clan Abersher’al,” Sar’een remembered. They had only met on a few occasions, but every time, she was left shy and wordless at the way the scion seemed to weave Peace into her very being. 

“Yes,” he affirmed, “The Blood of the Embers is the mediator, the counselor, the personification of peace. She embodies the Vir Atishan, and in her time as the scion to Sylaise, Ellya has nearly become nearly beyond all reproach in the work she does. With good reason of course. The Blood is spectacular in her role...and that's why she needed to be the one implicated."

Sar'een kept quiet, even though all the pieces started forming a more coherent picture in her head. A fallen scion being protected by the one who maintains the peace among them, going as far as invading a neighboring clan to save Elain. It made a compelling story, one full of intrigue and betrayal, despite what the truth may be.

"I knew Elain would send to Ellya for help, and I made sure Ellya would not have a choice but to answer. The Hearthmatron of Clan Abersher'al, Remada, was tired of how she was outnumbered and diminished in the Triumvirate, and she was all too eager to see what ways Abersher'al would profit from exclusive trade with the Diceni. An easy promise to make, easier to fulfill when my plans went in motion, and in exchange, she would whisper into the spy's ears to tell them how to best turn Keeper Gherlanna towards the plan. And it worked, all too well."

"So yes, I knew of Elain sending for help and I knew she would send to Abersher'al. Once they arrived in the Steppes, one of Abersher'al's scouts would be captured --the one personally chosen by Remada to attend-- and the trap would be sprung. Collusion between two scions to bring down another clan, to steal their trade contracts, and to profit from it themselves. The truth would twist itself to fit my narrative, and a High Council would have no choice but to address it."

Paeris stopped suddenly, and with a great heaving sigh, sat down on a piece of broken masonry just off the path. He still stared up at the ever shifting sky, full of color and dullness all at once, then slowly closed his eyes.

"There was one thing I didn't anticipate though, and I'm afraid it led to the death of hunter that did not deserve the fate thrust upon him," he said quietly, "I cannot make a mistake like that again."

"What did you miss?" she asked him softly. Sar'een was uncertain of the answer, and her voice could not demand it from him. She was a thrall to his will, how much he wanted to share, how much he would reveal. 

"I thought my sister would send Revas, not Llyn. And for my hubris, his body lays cold, never to wake again. That is my fault, no matter how much I don’t want it to be, and I must carry that with me for the rest of my days."

"You wanted Revas to die?"

He frowned sadly, "Not at all. He is difficult, but he is also well-loved and respected among the hunters in the clans. As Banal'ras, he's infamous and the only reason why Elain has accomplished as much as she has in the years she's served. I merely wanted his reputation tarnished along with my sister's. Hellan and my double agent were meant to capture Revas, hold him until a High Council, then have him be judged along with the Maiden. But Elain did not send him. I underestimated how much she depends on him, and for that, Llyn suffered. His face will haunt my dreams, Sar'een. I never meant for this to happen."

Despite his reprimands, despite his cruelty, despite the shrinking she still felt inside her and the scared little girl he brought out of her again, Sar'een could not help but feel some empathy towards him. It was difficult to tell if Paeris was sincere, but he had been alarmingly forthright. What did he gain by trying to garner her sympathy?

She sat down next to him, clutching her arms closely to her chest, and sat with her old mentor as he pondered his mistakes and felt the pain of responsibility bear down on him. It was something she knew all too well now, and even if she didn't think he was right, she knew he only was doing what he thought was best. But the best intentions meant little when blood still stained one's hands.

"It's beautiful here," Paeris broke the silence between them. He pointed towards a the trees that lined the path, twisted and formed from metal to be both stylistic and realistic, a testament to their people's once proud craftsmanship. "It must have been so inspiring the first time you saw this. Looking at the remnants of the Old Empire, seeing through the ruins the grandeur and feats of magic we were able to accomplish. I feel as though anything is possible when I look at it.”

"It did feel humbling," she agreed. "I thought of everything we were...and everything we can still be."

"Yes," he answered distantly. "Everything we can be."

"And that's why you did all this," Sar'een surmised. "Because you see the potential of what we can be, and you're frustrated that it can't be that way with so many factors blocking your path."

He smiled on her now. "See? You are not so ignorant as you pretended to be. You know my struggles better than any one elf in any clan across Thedas. To see the past, to see what we are capable of, then to see it all crumble to decay and neglect...that is what they Dalish are to me now. A relic left to rot by their own actions, lost in the chaos of the changing world, soon to be forgotten to history, and it has left me cold inside. I cannot stomach standing by and watching it continue, just as you could not let the injustice in Halamshiral stand. You are the only one who truly understands, Little Dove."

"It wasn't easy to do, Paeris. I let an Empress die to see that justice done," she admitted. It still made her chest feel like stone when she thought about it. "We shouldn't invite the Long Shadow into our hearts to justify our actions. It's what humans do. We're supposed to be better."

"Would you change it then? Would you do things differently, if given the chance?"

Sar'een closed her eyes, feeling that dark cloud hang over her. It was not just the Empress, but also Hawke, Llyn, the village of Haven, and little, little Marci at the Conclave. The faces she could not save and the faces she refused to alike, still finding themselves in her thoughts every time she took a second to reflect. Death was not something she enjoyed, nor invited. It was a way of her life now, and it nearly suffocated her. Still, she could not lie.

"No. I would not."

"As I thought," he nodded at the confession. "You truly do understand. You understand all too well. Such a shame."

"I understand, hahren, but I cannot agree," she said sadly. "Llyn is not an Empress."

He shook his head, "No, he is not. But like the Empress, his death will allow for progress, despite the cost paid. It's the ones who bear the burden of leadership who must live with the choices, and no matter what we tell ourselves, we cannot escape those consequences. My sister cannot, the other scions cannot, you cannot.. _.I_ cannot. What is done is done. Now, it is up to people like us to make sure it meant something."

"And what will Llyn's death mean?"

Paeris slowly stood from the ground, brushing off his robes with anxious hands, his eyes still fixed on the splendor of the Old Empire.

"His death will mean a future for the rest of the Dalish. Voices from clans all over Thedas finally rising up to condemn the abuse at the hands of scions, at Keepers, at Councilmembers who reached too far for their own self-interest. And once the dust has settled and the power has shifted back into the hands of the most vulnerable, that future will be ours for the taking."

Sar'een followed his lead and lifted herself from the her position on the stone path, "What do you see in that future?"

Paeris tucked his hands behind him, settled at the small of his back, and he looked up towards an empty ruin floating in the diaphanous sky above them.

"I see clans no longer separated by distance and isolation. I see land which is ours and ours alone again. I see trade among settlements growing into flourishing cities. I see the militia growing into a unified army, prepared to strike down any outside force that should threaten us. I see a future where my children and their children will live in glory, not fear. Where the elves are once again a power to be reckoned. I see that future, and I see the world rebuilt from our hands as the Earthshaker wills it...Elvhenan born anew," he turned to her suddenly, his face hard and unreadable once more. "And I will do anything to see that future realized."

"You want a sovereign nation," she saw his plans too clearly, too keenly. And it was disappointing. Oh, why did she believe there would be no darkness in him too. "And a sovereign nation needs a sovereign, doesn't it?"

He whipped his head back towards her and stared her down, "Do not presume that I want nothing but power from this. I am not my sister, nor am I my father. There is far more to be gained than than a throne."

"Whatever it is you want won't matter. The Chantry will see only one way to end it," she reminded him. The Dales fell to an Exalted March. It was foolish to think a new nation would not.

"The Chantry is weak! They could not call upon a herd of farmers with scythes, let alone an Exalted March!" he argued, "Do you think I'm the only one who sees that? Do you think the Qunari are ignoring the South after the Breach? Do you think the dwarves aren't actuely aware of the lyrium trade becoming unstable? There is nothing to balance the Chantry anymore, and the Inquisition is the only force that they can muster. Not because they have the devoted followers to staff it, oh no! It was an elf --a Dalish elf mage at that!-- that has stabilized the South through a unified front of many actors, not the Hand of the Maker. Do not insult yourself by making The Chantry seem more than they are: a once great, roaring ocean, now only a shallow pool left by the tide."

It alarmed Sar'een how discerning he was, how quickly and thoroughly he could dismantle any illusions she held. And he was right in this, as he was in most things. The Chantry is a phantom of what it once was, and the Inquisition is the only thing keeping it afloat. Orlais is weakened, the Chantry is weakened, Ferelden is still rebuilding after the Fifth Blight...the world was in shambles, and what was once great and powerful is nothing but a shell of glory. The North would rise again, and knowing her mentor, he would place himself in the best place to benefit from it. 

But it was a terrible thing to carry. She knew it all too well. In all the stories she grew up on, ones he told to her in his soothing voice as she listened with rapt attention, the ones with elves who reached for things larger than they could hold always concluded the same. There were no happy endings for the ones who made difficult decisions. Paeris would not see the fruits of his labors, and he would not see the future that he so obviously held close to his heart.

And in that came another realization…

Neither would Sar'een.

There would be no happy ending for her story, because she could never be happy while blood still stained her hands. Joy could not be found when the faces of those who suffered from her actions haunted her. The realization nearly crushed her, and she blinked rapidly to stop tears from coming in her eyes. She could not break here. Not now.

"You are determined, hahren, but I still worry for you," she finally spoke, letting her words suppress her pain for now. "The world has not been kind to us. Even less kind to those who try to make things better. We've survived this long...it would be a shame to throw it all away."

He gave a small sigh and shrugged his shoulders, "We can do more than just survive, da'len, but I understand your concern. While you only recently have fallen into leadership, I have breathed it since my youth. Over time, you will see the futility in preserving something that doesn't work."

"Perhaps," was all she could say. Paeris looked on her sadly, the unnatural light of the Crossroads showing every wrinkle and worry line in his face. The magic of this place seemed to break all illusions for her, and show him for what he really was. Intimidating, frightening, powerful, and utterly, utterly exhausted by his loneliness from it.

"I'm sorry you have to endure this, Little Dove. And I'm sorry that I only made matters worse. Had I been more careful, you would never have had to think about it."

"I doubt that," she replied truthfully. "These problems always seem to find their way to me."

"Indeed. But I have bared my soul enough this evening and worried you far too much. I will speak no more of the burdens we both carry. I will say this though: you are no idea what a great service you’ve done for me today. I have held the weight of my plans in my chest for many years, and in just sharing it with you --no matter how inconsequential-- I feel as if my soul is lighter. Thank you for this, Little Dove.”

He turned and looked towards the Eluvian before she could answer, then held his arm out to escort her. "Shall we return? Wycome still needs its savior."

How she wished it didn't. How she wished she could lie her head on her pillow and never wake again. How she wished that Uthenera was still an option, still some secret that they could still hold. Sar'een would walk in dreams for eternity, never again having to face the darkness that surrounded her.

That in and of itself was a dream. One that could never be realized. Not even her dreams got a happy ending.

Instead, she nodded her head and laced her arm into her old mentor's, and together, they left the remnants of what their people once were, only to return to the bleak reality that they were forced to live in now. 

\--

The Nacre Palace was still empty when Sar’een arrived back with her answers, though the dawn would be approaching soon. Far off sounds of life would surely be waking the rest of the occupants, but the Main Hall only echoed her solitary footsteps, the stiff heels of her boots the only noise that filled her ears. She walked the hall as if lost, and in truth, she was. 

If a soul could be lost, Sar'een was lost. If a soul would wander aimlessly, looking for answers in an ether that held none, then Sar'een wandered. She wandered and walked, her thoughts dark and her heart darker, sorrow and despair threatening to eat her alive.

Paeris' confession was thorough, but no matter what he had assured her, he did not tell her out of trust. He did so because he was tired of carrying that burden, the same as she, and he knew that even if he did lay it on her, there was nothing she could do. Or that she would even want to.

They were one in the same, after all. Living with death and manipulation in order to better their people. Tearing out their own hearts to make sure the elves saw progress, justice, autonomy. He had shaped her, molded her, sculpted her in his image, and in confessing to her, it had been nothing deeper than speaking into his reflection in water. Slightly distorted, not quite him but still him all the same.

She found herself seeking release from this knowledge, from this prison she only now just realized she had been damned to. There was never an opportunity for her to make a choice. Everything had always been thrust upon her. Her being a mage. Her being First to the clan. Her being Inquisitor. Her being Paeris’ darling doll come to life. She never had the option, it was always chosen for her. Sar'een had never asked for any of this, and she still must carry that burden.

But it was so heavy. So very heavy.

A noise drew her from her thoughts. A tiny thing, like a bell, or a distant bubbling spring, or her mother's whisper in her ear. The sound didn’t feel real, just another construct bending reality like the Crossroads, but she turned her head anyways and saw beautifully engraved doors just off of the Main Hall. They were inlaid with mother-of-pearl, depicting scenes of Andraste's life. She thought it must be the Duke's family shrine to the Maker and nearly walked past it. But there was something compelling about the visage in the door, and with an impulsive urge, she pushed down on the handle.

The inside was small, but beautiful nonetheless. Two oak pews sat in the center of the room, lined in blue velvet, and in front of them, a marble of the Prophetess, her crown gilded in gold leaf and inlaid with pearls. The shrine beneath her held candles burned down to their bases and as stiff as rocks. It had not been touched in weeks, by the looks of it, and Sar'een was not surprised. 

She slowly made her way to the front of the small room and sat down on the pew right in front of the shrine. When she looked up, Andraste seemed to stare at her, with both sympathy and peace in her eyes. It left her feeling uneasy, but she had nowhere else to go, and her soul was crying out for something. Perhaps this is what she was meant to see.

"Did you feel alone?" she asked the inanimate statue. "Did you feel as if world rested on your shoulders, and you wanted to do nothing but sleep?"

The Prophetess did not answer, of course, but Sar'een continued anyways.

“You were surrounded by so many people, but people don’t make it less lonely, do they? Is that how you felt? Lost in a sea of friends and followers, sycophants and traitors, but you yourself separated from it all? I feel that way. I wish I didn’t.

There was still no answer.

"They say I've been marked by you," she pulled off the glove covering the anchor on her left hand, then held it up so that the statue looked upon it. "Does this look familiar? I saw visions of how this happened, just like you saw visions of your Maker. But you weren't there! You were not there, and neither were my gods. Neither were my friends, or my family, or any faces I could look upon and feel comfort! I was alone with a monster and his magic, for no reason other than I stumbled into it. If it's all so accidental, if it's all so out of my hands, then why do I have to bear it! Why must I be the one who must be alone!"

The tears that threatened to spill in the Crossroads with Paeris now welled up freely.

"You didn't get a happy ending, did you? You burned at the pyre for freeing your people. You died so that they could live! Is that the fate that I'm to be given now? Does this mark mean that I must always carry this weight? Does it mean I can never be free of this responsibility? Of the consequences? Of the blood I spilled and must spill again? How many Empresses must I decide to let die? How many loved ones must be left behind so that I can move forward? It rips my soul apart, Prophetess! How did you bear it!"

She sobbed freely now in that solitude as Andraste watched on impassively.

"And now I must shoulder another weight. I cannot let my people fall to pride. I cannot let the only person I've known as my brother fall to pride. I cannot let my people do to him what your people did to you. And if it means I must stand on the pyre, then....then..."

Her chin trembled at the epiphany, but her mind could not process it in the moment, "Did you cry alone to your Maker? All the stories say He would only speak to you. Did He offer His shoulder to rest your head? Did He wipe away your tears and lift your loneliness?"

Andraste still looked down benevolently on her, and Sar'een hated her for it.

"My maker only speaks of conquest and devastation. He pretends to care that he caused the death of an innocent in the same breath that he argues for sacrifice. He speaks of a future that is as bright as the sun, and just as dangerous. He tells me he understands me, and that he doesn't want to be alone, but everything he says is a lie. He only wants to use me as well, to gain my sympathy and understanding so that I do not raise my sword against him."

She looked down on her marked hand, turning it over slowly and watching as the green light crackled under her skin.

"We were both betrayed by our Makers, Prophetess. We were both whispered secret things, forbidden things, told only we could hold the power in those words. But our Makers do not have to feel the pain, do they? They don't feel the regret. Their hands do not drip with blood. It's ours. Makers always seem to fear their creations, and for that, we only know suffering and loss. "

The sun began to rise, and light started to shine on the small stained glass window near the ceiling of the room. It backlit Andraste's statue from behind, bestowing upon her her very own halo. Luminescent and holy, a sight that would surely seems as Andraste sending her words of love and peace, but all Sar'een could conjure was pity.

"It'll be us on the pyres, always. It'll be us who are betrayed and who take a sword to the heart to end our pain. And we do it all so our people can be free, and so our Makers can be as well. We suffer so that they may thrive."

The light grew brighter as morning came, and Sar'een wiped the tears from her eyes at the defeat.

"So be it. In the moments I am alone and with no god to care for me, where no respite can be found from my burdens, I will remember your face instead, Andraste. I will remember that if the Maker's Bride cannot escape her fate, then neither can I. It will give me no peace, but perhaps it will strengthen my perspective. Your sacrifice is what made the difference, after all."

Sar'een slipped her glove back onto her marked hand and stood up from the pew. Morning had arrived, and she needed to find Sal and Keeper Deshanna. Paeris had given her very little time, but so long as she still breathed, she would move forward. Llyn must be given justice, and the Dalish must be given the option to carve their path unburdened by the lies and politics Paeris would play. And Paeris...his efforts must be used for the betterment of their people, not himself. She only hoped there was still time to help.

If there was to be no happy ending for her, the least she could do is ensure her brother had a chance at his.


	59. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wycome has a new leader, and the consequences of the city's rebirth are far reaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation at the end of the chapter. Also, some personal notes I'd like to share once the reader has finished.

If there was one thing Margrave Iden Killian was not, it was lucky.

He was born during a terrible drought that killed a sizable amount of Ansburg’s population, was raised by cold nursemaids and servants in the Killian household with no love nor gentle embraces to comfort him, was outshone in every aspect of his education--from martial prowess to intellect. He was a younger child no one cared about, nor truly loved, and all his life, he lived with the knowledge that poor little Iden was never to become anything but another body to throw to the Chantry so that House Killian could remain pious in the sights of the only institution other than their own that mattered to them.

It was a bleak way to live, one without joy or purpose, and for the longest time, Iden felt as if the Maker was not real; as if Andraste was not real; as if the whole of his existence was a terrible dream born of ill intent on his soul from another life.

But there finally did come moments where Fortune turned her gaze on him, possibly to make up for all the misspent and misused years, but it was always fleeting. Like the time his wretched mother fell ill and spent two years wasting away in a dark, secluded room. Or when his father suffered the same disease, all while witnessing his eldest, most beloved daughter run away and elope with a Fereldan farmer. Iden got to watch in glee as his father's strength crumbled, just like his mother before, and as he signed away Ansburg to the younger, unloved son.

Years of neglect, years of having the bad luck of being born to the wrong family, and he was finally, finally rewarded for his suffering. A city that would bow to his commands, instead of him bowing for hours on end in the damp, suffocating Chantry that sat on the Minanter that ran through Ansburg. Finally, something he could feel blessed about.

It was short-lived, of course. 

He learned soon after of a depleted treasury from his father's lavish whims, a government staffed by the friends and family of his mother's many clandestine lovers, and a city guard who received a pittance for their pay and sold their swords under the table to the city's less...reputable groups. Iden's luck had run out before it ever really started, and he was left with a mess of an administration, and a city on the verge of becoming a bigger backwater in the Free Marches than it was before. No matter what he did, the results would take time, and if there was one thing people were not, it was patient.

Still, Iden did what he could. Terminate the old positions; install new, qualified people people into handling the government administration; call in a retired general of the Amalgamated Guard to to restore the city guard; push the Chantry to beg for more alms from the citizens of the city so that they could aid in replenishing the treasury. He was met with resistance at every turn, and he started to believe that perhaps his luck had never turned for the better. Perhaps this was just another punishment in a long line of punishments for him having been born at all.

Iden had hoped Wycome could change his fortune. He had hoped a swift wipe of his hand would clear the city of its elven interlopers, and in doing so, gain notoriety and support from the rest of the Marcher cities for dealing with this heretical coup. 

How was he supposed to know the Blessed of Andraste herself would show up and rip open the fabric of the world to stop him? Not even the most seasoned commanders and kings could have predicted something like that. 

Or at least, that's what he told himself to suppress the fact that despite his lamentable luck, Margrave Killian was also a man who loved to gamble.

Wycome was the largest bet he had made in some time, and the stakes were high enough to give a Chantry mother a fainting spell. Calling up the ranks of the Free Army was his way of making it a sure thing, but damned if that didn’t go to hell too. Even when his odds were good, his luck always seemed to win out.

As he stared across the negotiation table at the Herald of Andraste, he couldn't help but feel like his luck wasn’t going to change soon. She’d gathered a veritable army of advisors and who’s who in the city of Wycome, including some of the elven residents and her own Dalish clan, he assumed. They all spoke amongst each other, their eyes suspicious of him and his noble lackeys he brought along, but darting away when they thought he was onto their mutinous whispers. It nearly looked like the city was already against him.

No, his luck was not looking any better in the moment. 

"Are you ready to begin, Margrave?"

The Inquisitor’s voice cut through the idle chatter, and the room came to a deathly silence within a heartbeat. She stood at the head of the great desk they all sat around, taller than he imagined, and younger too. But while her face lacked the vestiges of maturity, it did not lack for the blows leading the South had thrown against her. Her eyes were sunken, as were her cheeks, and it gave her a grave look about her. There was no doubt she would be taken seriously, no matter her age.

 _Finally_ , Iden thought at the start of this farce. _Let it be started so I can see if I can roll the dice and walk away with a win yet._

"Indeed," he answered, then reclined back in his high-backed chair, relaxing himself. No need to seem desperate. Let her think he had all the cards in his hands. "Are you ready to talk the terms of the Free Army's recall?"

"No," she stated rudely, "I'm ready to tell you the future of the city of Wycome and waiting rather impatiently for you to disband the Free Army of your own free will."

Rubbish. Complete rubbish. But all at the same time...this was a woman who knew how to gamble. Come out with confidence, intimate your adversary, and make your bluff. But he knew every trick in the book, and had played more games than this backwards elf could fathom. It was as simple as calling a bluff.

"I was led to believe you would negotiate, Inquisitor," he said dryly. "Does the Chantry always make such a show of lying to potential allies?"

Or meet one bluff with another. Let her believe they were on equal footing, and make her wonder if he has ties with the Chantry she’s unaware of. Her eyes narrowed at him, but ever so slightly. Was that her tell? Iden would have to watch closely.

"The Inquisition is not the Chantry, Margrave, and you know that. It's beneath you to try to play with your words like a debutante in Orlais," she said with such calm flippancy, that he couldn't help but admire it. Take away his potential image with the Chantry, and tie it instead to the much-maligned Orlesian courtesans. That’d play well to Marchers. Too well for him to be comfortable with.

Time to roll the dice.

"You'll have to excuse me, Lady Herald. Your organization has had its hands in a little of everything. It’s so difficult to keep it all straight," a rebuff said with a grin that would surely get tongues wagging among the sycophant nobles in the room. "The contention still stands though: I was told we would negotiate. You have only made demands."

She sniffed, as if annoyed, and it was the only sound in the room. It resonated off the walls and the immediate silence left after made it clear she did not like the outcome of his roll. All the better for him to raise the stakes.

"You were made no such promise, Margrave Killian. In fact, you were given fair warning that you were incapable of handling the red lyrium that is still infested in the city's waterways. No matter the martial prowess of the Free Army, they are not equipped to deal with this menace."

A stated lie, a diversion from the topic at hand, a reminder of the red lyrium to draw attention back to the aptitude of her organization, and a smart remark against the Free Army’s capabilities. The Inquisitor rolled a higher number this time, no doubt about that. But he wasn’t sure that his bad luck had spoiled it yet.

Fold this time, so he could get another chance to roll.

"Surely the Inquisition has an answer for that," he suggested, "but it would do no harm to work together to see that the red lyrium is destroyed while the city is being rebuilt. Wycome needs to get back to some semblance of normalcy."

"It has already, thanks to the efforts of the elves here," she stated matter of factly, then spoke no further. 

Ah, and there was the tell. She probably thought she’d get away with propping one of her elves up, and was making them seem the saviors. A mighty gamble, that one, but the profits from a win would pay her exponential political capital. Very risky, but every gambler knew that the feeling of a win always outweighed the odds.

Iden was starting to like this Inquisitor, but he had his own hand to play. He could appreciate the leap she was making, but people back in Ansburg might not like their fellow Marchers under the rule of the knife ears.

"As valiant as their efforts have been, I do doubt that any elf living in and outside of Wycome is well-versed in the ruling of a city-state," he argued gently, carefully. Iden had not forgotten that even if Ansburg and the other Marcher cities see differently, the soldiers in the Free Army that marched here were all but ready to swear up fealty to the chosen of Andraste. "A strong leader must be installed to right the terrible wrongs done here --one with experience and abilities suiting the city itself."

The Inquisitor placed her palms on the wood of the desk and leaned into it, throwing an intense glare at him. If Iden was a superstitious man, he’d say she was casting some kind of spell to intimidate him, because even if she was a wiry looking thing, she felt like palpable force. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he remembered…he was superstitious. And she was a mage. 

No fair bringing magic to a high-stakes game like this.

"What makes a strong leader, Margrave?" 

The room still sat still and quiet at her question, all of them waiting with bated breath for his answer. Another pivot. Iden thought the Inquisitor missed her calling in some Orlesian production with all this dancing around matters she did! Dancing and flourishes and even little bits of magical assistance, he reckoned. What a show she was putting on for him.

Still, he knew what she wanted. Wanted him go all in on what good leadership means, give a grand speech about it that outlines what it _actually_ means, then soak in the praise and accolades it’ll bring. Cheers from elves weren’t going to sway the nobles and merchants here though. No matter how friendly they were all acting to each other, the fact still remained...they were elves. And humans didn’t like seeing elves acting above their station.

He’d take that bluff.

"Well, er, many things, I suppose," he tapped his foot on the ground as he spoke. Nervous tick. Shouldn’t be doing it, but something about the quietness of the room made it hard to stop. "Duty. Justice. A sense of pride for one's home. Dedication to making that home as strong as possible."

"Anything else?"

Building her case by making him seem like it didn’t take much to be a leader. He’d give her more. And something she couldn’t say her little people had.

"Blood and honor. Strong leaders are born with rulership as a birthright, and their life is submerged in preparing for that the moment they draw their first breath," he finished. "It's been the way of the world since the dawn of the ages."

Elves can’t grow blue blood. She was going to have to roll high to win this one.

"And that rulership has given us blood in return tenfold. It has robbed us of honor and dignity, denied us justice," she responded flatly. "It's given birth to every war, every grieving mother, every dead child. It's robbed the most vulnerable of their most precious treasures, then took even more. It has been the cause of every boot on the back of an elf, every starving peasant who was choked with taxes so his lordling could fill his coffers. It made for this --all the corruption and decay-- to happen in Wycome, and it has touched every nation that the sun shines on in Thedas. Perhaps it's time for things to change."

Highish, but not high enough. She was going to have to do better than that.

Iden set his forearms on the desk in front of him and leaned over on them, then gave the Inquisitor a brilliant smile, “Then what would you change, Inquisitor, since you seem to have all the answers to the world’s ills?”

 _Let’s see what would-be puppet she has planned for the throne_ , he thought to himself smugly. An elf is an elf if an elf. Didn’t matter how well-spoken, well-dressed, well-versed in politics...the blue bloods would never see past those pointed ears.

"Salit Zakros? If you would please stand."

A world-worn elf sitting near her stood up and bowed his head gently in respect. Iden nearly laughed at how bad this woman’s tells were. It’s a wonder the south hadn’t played her like a fiddle.

"Introduce yourself to the nobles of the Free Marches and lay out the future of Wycome for them," she pointed her chin up in the direct of the Margrave and his entourage, then settled herself back into her seat, her eyes never leaving Iden's face. 

"It'd be my pleasure, my lady," he said politely, then turned his focus on the waiting crowd. 

"I'm Salit Zakros, er...Sal, preferably," the elf started, his accent an indication of his ill-education and upbringing. An alienage dweller. "I've been livin' here in Wycome for the better part of my entire life. Most of you from the city know me."

Several of the human merchants sitting on the Inquisitor's side of the negotiation table nodded at his statement. Well acquainted in the city, then. Iden did not sweat over the detail. Merchants didn’t tend to gamble much; too attached to their coin and the stakes that might lose it. An elf was an unknown, a possible hindrance to business. They’d go with stability over loyalty.

"And most of you all who know me know I ain't nothin' special. Just a bartender tryin' to do right by my people, live day to day, keep the doors of my tavern open by serving some poor sods watered-down ale," he said with a wink.

It garnered a laugh from several elves, and a chuckle from most of the humans. He had to admit: there was a folksy charm there. But charm doesn’t make one's blood bluer or ears smaller. There was no ship to sail on this sea.

"That was until madness came to Wycome," the elf's voice was suddenly serious. "Madness that ruined our ruler, ruined our guard, ruined the very people that made the city run. And with that madness came torture. Pain. Death. So much death."

The elf --Sal-- lowered his head, looking down on the gnarled wood desk underneath him, but composed himself, and turned his gaze back upwards.

"I saw it firsthand. Our hahren, Jossa...she stood up to the mercenaries the Duke had hired and fed the red lyrium. She took an ax for it. I saw the waterlogged corpses of my people used by demons in the catacombs as they tried to escape this madness. I saw their bodies used for..." he paused, clenching his eyes shut and opening them once again, and the tension of it was sobering, "I saw their bodies used to farm that damned lyrium. They weren't even people no more then. Monsters, twisted and corrupted, just like the lyrium. Just like the madness that had twisted and corrupted the Duke. In tryin’ to save his city, Antoine turned everything he touched into a monster like him."

"And a lot of folks watched. A lot of folks hid in their stone houses off Tulip Way and Poppy Avenue, hopin' it wouldn't come to them. Heard the screams of my people bein' slaughtered in the night and did nothin'. Poppy Avenue fell though, in the end. Got just as corrupted and twisted, just as monstrous. More death. But even then folks hoped it'd just blow over. Holed up in their separate district, waitin' for somethin' to make or break the city. Those who didn't flee...they just waited. And it wasn't right."

The elf took a deep breath, and Iden was starting to dread what was coming next. He was not nearly as confident in his odds anymore. This speech wasn't the story of an elven coup he hand been told when the escaped nobles arrived in Ansburg. He might have not even believed, if he hadn't seen the lyrium himself. Sal’s tale wouldn’t just play well back home; the whole Marches would be fired up by it. Kirkwall was still fresh in their minds, and faith in leadership had been shaken.

The odds of Iden walking out of this one with all his chips in hand was looking less likely.

"It was just a symptom of a bigger problem though, wasn't it?" Sal asked his audience, but they sat in silent captivation. "And that problem is the feeling that us elves ain't worthy of the air we breathe. We ain't worthy of the food in our bellies, the water in our mouth, the clothes on our backs. We ain't worthy of nothin' but the scraps humans get to decide for us, ain't worthy of nothin' but servin'. Well...I say that ain't right either."

He gestured with his arm widely, "Look around this place. Look at the docks, at the Bazaar, at the alienage. _We did this_. Not some humans. Not some noble piss pot in his fancy palace commandin' his big armies. A bunch of poor, hopeless elves with nothin' to lose but our home came together and took this fuckin' city back from the brink of madness. _We did this!_ We did this and we would do it thousand times, again and again, because this place? It’s all we know. _All_ we know. At the end of the day...you can all move on. Find new homes, new places to plant roots. Us...we got Wycome and nothin’ else. And if our lives and our dedication to Wycome, in making this damn city run and run well...if that ain't worthy, then not a damn one of you at this table is either!"

This earned him scorned whispers from the displaced nobles, but they were outnumbered by the faces in the room that obviously agreed. Inquisitor’s number was higher than Iden originally thought.

“Now I know you all came in marchin’ on the city gates hopin’ to wipe us out. But we’re the ones that saved the city in the first place,” the elf continued on. “And I know you want revenge for us executin’ the old Duke, but there weren’t no one else who was gonna give us justice for all we lost here. It had to be us. It had to be us and it had to be when we did, and I don’t regret it one bit. But justice was served, in the end. We got rid of the people that let the corruption nearly destroy Wycome, and once that was down, we settled down and got to work. The ports are open and gettin’ regular shipments. The Bazaar is up and runnin’, and soon as this is all resolved, is gonna have more trade than it’s ever seen! The walls of alienage will stay down, same with the walls in the other districts. We’re turning this city into a place that experienced the darkest mess of shit imaginable, and we’re gonna make it better. Bigger. Stronger.”

The elf suddenly turned his gaze on Iden, “And I’m going to be the one to lead Wycome to it’s better future.”

The nobles cried out all at once, a cacophony of voices rising over the elf’s speech, but Iden kept his silence. He didn’t think anything of it before, but it was only his entourage making a commotion. All of the people the Inquisitor brought from the city have been nodding right along with her and this Sal. There was bigger works going on, and he could smell it. 

No need to rush and overplay his hand. See where the next roll of the dice fell first. 

But some nobles weren’t content with that, and one of them voiced their concerns, “An elf as Duke...preposterous! What good is a ruler who has never seen a day of governance in his life!?”

Iden didn’t even know the man the words came out of. Some lesser lordling from Tantervale probably who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. 

“And what good is a ruler who has never used his hands to tie off ships on the docks? Who has never lifted a finger to patch the masonry on the walls? Who has never spent tireless hours reviewing permit applications day in and day out? Who has never swept the marble walkways or cooked in the guards’ barracks or mended the weather-worn tapestries that fly from the gates of Wycome?” it was the Inquisitor who asked him these questions, her voice rising with each one. “If you have not lived the life of Wycome, breathed in the very essence of the city --from the lowest beggar to the most blue-blooded noble-- then you cannot deem what is necessary to rule it.”

“You stumbled into leading the Inquisition and had to learn the intricacies of leadership. You should know more than anyone the responsibility and burden that it entails!” that same noble snapped back at her, and Iden winced. What an old fool. He just threw away all his chips without realizing it.

But Iden, gambler that he was, knew better than anyone when to give up a little to gain even more. And he was damn good at recognizing it too --if only his luck wasn’t so abysmal. Still, it was worth a shot. He could still go home with his head up high, even if he hadn’t brought Wycome in as a client state.

“Alright Inquisitor,” he said calmly, completely and utterly relaxed. Couldn’t let her see him sweat. “Let’s say that this Sal would make a fine ruler. Let’s toy with the idea of an outsider to the way of the game comes and knocks all the pieces off the board, starting fresh with new eyes. And let’s say that I and my advisors and brethren agree to his ascension. With all this in mind, there is still one problem: he is an elf, and humans are still not ready to be ruled over by your kind. There will be insurrection and rebellion, perhaps even a coup. How can you keep your new leader in power, and how can you keep his people safe?”

“I think that question is better fielded by Wycome’s new ruler, don’t you think?” She smiled just a little when she said it. He got the feeling she knew she already won. What made her think that, he wondered.

Sal cleared his voice loudly, “And since that’d be me, I’ll just tell you: I ain’t doing this alone. I ain’t planning on walking down to the Great Hall and sittin’ on the Duke’s throne. That shit hasn’t worked before, and if we’re gonna be talkin’ ‘bout all the change we wanna do, then we actually gotta do it.”

“So what are you proposing?” Iden pressed him. He was intrigued. And entertained. This was far more complex than he originally thought; and what his advisors and the sycophants that followed him like fleas had indicated. An elf as a ruler...and even stranger, him considering it. What would his wretched parents think?

He nearly gave a smirk. All the more reason to consider it. 

“Cuttin’ off the head,” Sal responded enigmatically, then smiled. With an eager hand, he motioned for people sitting around him to get up from their seats at the desk, and several humans and a dwarf did so, albeit reluctantly.

“See this? Best and brightest Wycome has to offer. Long time residents, know all the ins and outs of the Bazaar, the docks, even the farms outside the city walls. They’ve been helpin’ me with the rebuildin’. Some of ‘em even helped fight off the lyrium thralls in the blitz here,” the elf seemed to nod to a middle-aged, portly merchant. “They know what needs to be done to make this city run, and they know what we wanna do to make it run even better. So with their blessin’ and the blessin’ of the Inquisitor, I’m creatin’ a board of representatives to be the voice of the residents in the Nacre Palace. A voice for farmers, one for dockworkers, merchants, servants...all of ‘em. The Wycome Union.”

The portly merchant cleared his throat, “I’m Rhian Cuthbert, of the Ostwick Cuthberts. Long removed from Ser Uther Cuthbert, but a drop is a drop I suppose. I have been a resident of this fine city for nearly three decades, and I have been in the business of textile trade. I watched the Duke’s fall to madness, the attempted purging of the alienage, and with Sal’s help, I saw my own hand in the destruction caused here. Myself and my fellows here have worked with the elves to see something come from the ashes, and we’re quite proud, messeres. Damn proud. And we’d like to continue our work, unhindered.”

“Now I know it’s difficult to swallow the idea of an upheaval here, even more so from elves,” he went on, “but I can assure you, messeres, that Sal has the best interests of the city at heart and wants to see us flourish. So we’re proposing this: A Union of representatives that will act in the special interests of their constituents, making sure everyone has a voice and so no one group will be stifled in favor of corruption again.”

“We’re reworkin’ the whole thing,” Sal cut in, “rebuildin’ it from the ground up. A new court with magistrates to see justice served, instead of waiting on a Duke to do it. A Union to pass new laws and get rid of old ones. Expandin’ the docks to get more boats full of goods comin’ in. Tearin’ down Poppy Avenue and creatin’ an administrative district. Trade’ll be reworked. Bazaar licenses’ll be reworked. Water will be cleaned and shared by the whole city, not just the ones livin’ in marble palaces. The Wycome Union is gonna be the people of Wycome havin’ a say in how we rule this city.”

What an ambitious plot the Inquisitor wove in her web. And what a delectable one, as well! If everything was new in Wycome, that means everything old would be gone and buried. Including the old partnerships and ties to noble houses across the Free Marches.

Iden couldn’t help but let his mouth curl into a smile. His luck was still holding up, despite it all. Time to push it as far as he could. 

“And what of all the long-standing relationship Duke Antoine and his bloodline has with the nobles across the Free Marches? Will you eradicate all the goodwill and allies the city has before you even paint your first wall?” Iden asked him innocently. Just place the suggestion on his plate and wait and see if the elf bit.

“Maybe the noble bloodlines would like to get acquainted with the new Union instead?”

It was a dwarf who said it, but not the one who was standing. A few seats down from the Inquisitor, he sat in resplendent clothing and a well-tended and oiled beard. Merchant’s Guild, if Iden had to guess.

“I’m sorry, Ser…?” he attempted to fish for a name, since he was asking the right question. Maybe the nobles should get acquainted indeed.

“Davri. Ser Coban Davri of House Davri, second son of Ogham Davri, trade acquisition specialist for House Davri,” the dwarf responded boredly, all while keeping his eye on Iden as he spoke. Even if he sounded unmoved by the talks here, he still had an eagle eye on him. 

Iden swallowed the taste of cooper that appeared like a phantom in his mouth. Davri. Davri Davri Davri. House Davri. The House that Iden owed a lot of gold too. The House that bankrolled Iden’s ascension for the sake of stability in the city, and the House that would be expecting to collect sooner rather than later. 

It looked like Wycome was their ‘ _sooner_ ’.

“As amusing as all these talks are, I’d rather just get down to the business of the matter,” Davri said pointedly. “My House already backs the Wycome Union, and so does the local Merchant Guild. The human merchants are behind it as well. Now, there are a few options here. One...you reject the negotiations here and lose any and all access to trade to and from Wycome. You’ll need to depend on Starkhaven even more and can forget about trying to send those famous Ansburg steeds of yours to Rivain. No ship will sail out with ‘em.”

“Or two…” Davri paused dramatically, “you find yourself in the good graces with the Union, and you can start building new relationships from there. We’re not without means, Margrave. Or connections.”

Indeed, they were not. Sweat started to form on Iden’s brow as the anxiety of his debts set in. He was well and truly in a bind. If he did not comply with uplifting the Union, House Davri may retaliate. If he did, the rest of the noble houses in the Free Marches might. It was a complex set of stakes, ones he probably should have gambled on. Not with his luck.

But gambling was what get him in this mess in the first place, didn’t it? Shoud’ve let Tantervale taken care of this. 

Still, he was not a stupid man, despite what his tutors may have whispered into his son of a bitch father’s ear. Davri was offering an out, one that would help him, but he needed to figure out a way to use it so that he wasn’t thrown under the wheels of the wagon.

“Of that I have no doubt, Ser Davri,” he started diplomatically. Easy does it. No need to seem desperate. “Your House is a welcome presence in the markets of my home of Ansburg, and I’m sure you’d be well equipped to make sure trade flourishes in Wycome. But...it can be done under a Duke, as well. There must be more on the table before my fellows and I can even consider standing behind an untested regime.”

His heart froze in his chest as he waited for an answer. Davri cocked his eyebrow at the request, but the corners of his mouth seemed to turn up in approval. The dwarf exchanged a glance with the elf, Sal, then refocused his attention back on Iden.

“Now, you don’t think we’d let you leave here empty handed, do you?” Davri asked wryly. “This Union isn’t going to go anywhere unless there’s support behind it, so...let us give you an incentive.”

“Exclusivity,” Sal cut in. “Ansburg is the wayport between Wycome and the rest of the western Marches. Up until now, the old Imperium roads where how merchants got between the cities. But we’re thinkin’...maybe it’s time for new roads. New ways.”

“Go on,” Iden urged him. His interest was piqued.

“The Minanter Highway. Usin’ the river itself to carry goods. Settin’ up tradeposts and teamin’ up with local villages to maintain the passage. Bypassin’ Starkhaven entirely to get into Antivan markets. Goin’ over Starkhaven and Tanterval’s heads to move to Hasmal. And once we’ve setup outside of Hasmal, Nevarra is just at our fingers.”

Iden chewed his lip, “The river isn’t used because of the unincorporated lands surrounding it on the north side. They’re wild and full of bandits and other...obstacles. How would you propose to fix that?”

“Our new Guard,” Sal answered comfortably. “Humans are scared of wild things, but not my people. We can navigate shit that no one else wants to touch, and I’ve got an entire network ready and able to start that work. And with our Dalish allies working with us instead of against us…”

“The power of the Northern Free Marches relies on the Minanter, Margrave,” the Inquisitor joined in the conversation. “With a partnership between Ansburg and Wycome, every territory on the north side of the Minanter is within reach of being used for a greater purpose. You could accept that and try to capitalize on it, or you can set up a puppet Duke here to fill your pockets with a limited amount of coin. You will get wealth either way, but only one will build Ansburg into more than a backwater shunned for the likes of Markham and Wildervale. And all you have to do is let the Wycome Union prove itself.”

“And how long do I have to wait for them to do so?” Iden asked flatly. His options were limited, but not unprofitable. There were ways to win this yet.

The Inquisitor shrugged, “A matter of months, I suppose. Ventures like this either immediately fail, or start building towards a long game. If they do not immediately fail, you have your answer.”

“Hmm,” he mused on the words. “And if this new government is a union, then what is Ser Zakros’ role?”

“Not Duke,” Sal responded immediately. “I just make sure to oversee that progress is made and that work is gettin’ done by the appointed voices.”

“He’ll be the Minister,” the Inquisitor suggested firmly. “The Minister of the Union.”

So he’d maintain some power, but not all. Humans and dwarves would also have a say in the administration of the city, and powerful ones at that. House Davri’s backing was no laughing matter as well. Iden found himself in a situation where all the pieces were lined up perfectly, presented in such a pretty way, it was hard not to get caught up in the story they’d tell.

That story would play well too. Every chambermaid from here to Kirkwall would be chattering excitedly about the new government in Wycome, the romantic tales of elves acting as saviors, and sighing dramatically at the thought of having representation in their own cities. But tales get old, and once a new story comes up, Wycome would be left with its rulership independent of most of the noble houses of the Free Marches. 

It might not be a bad thing, though. Iden hated the snobby, narrow-nosed high-bred stock that called themselves the inheritors of the Marches. He wasn’t raised to be among them, and the only ones he encountered were the bastard children who gambled the meagre inheritance their fathers left them away in brothels and taverns. There was no love or loyalty for blue bloods from him.

No, none at all. But the Minanter...there lie all the possibilities of this bet. If his dice landed on a high enough number, he stood to start a line of rulers to rival Starkhaven, with their reach and power. But if he got snake eyes, he’d just end up pushing himself and Ansburg more in debt, until they were nothing but a broke down village begging for scraps.

For any other ruler, it might be a hard decision. But Iden was a gambler through and through. He knew the odds, knew the stakes, knew what it would cost him to win, and what he had to lose. Even the man with the worst luck in the world knew that you had to lose some to win some.

And sometimes, you had to go all in.

“Well, Minister Zakros,” Iden stood from his chair and grinned at the elf widely.

“Shall we discuss building roads?”

\---

Deshanna sat in her seat at the desk at the negotiation as the morning gave way to afternoon, slightly dumbstruck at it all.

It was easier to convince the Margrave than Deshanna had suspected it would be, but Sar'een had played her cards well. Instead of pleading and trying to placate him and his nobles, she gave the orders, she made the decisions. The whole of Wycome was behind her, and she had the foresight to make sure the most powerful of them were present to enforce those decisions. 

Deshanna knew she couldn't take credit for the shrewdness her First had developed. Paeris had planted the seed in her young, and the waters of Orlais fed it until it grew into a stoic, if pragmatic leader. She sighed at the assessment. There had been the hope she would grow into her own, stop trying to emulate those she looked up to, but whatever chance of that happening disappeared with the little girl who sat on her lap as she taught her advanced healing spells. 

"Unless you have any other propositions, Margrave Killian, I would like to dismiss this meeting."

Sar'een spoke over the negotiations of the handover of the city. Sal, Rhian, the dwarf Davri, and several other representatives silenced themselves at her words, after they had spent the last hour gaily going back and forth with the Free Marches' nobles. Who would get how much grain, who would get what trade contracts, who would cede land for development, who would get cedar for building bigger boats to sail down the Minanter...ideas and concessions sprang up like a well once the Union was established as the next great experiment, and the mood seemed amicable --even optimistic-- by the time the Inquisitor cut in. 

The Margrave --still grinning like a child given a honeycomb-- stood up from his seat, "Only trivial agreements and concepts that will need hashed out, my Lady Herald. Nothing that I cannot discuss with Minister Zakros in the near future.” He turned to Sal, “Will you be hosting an inaugural event? The rest of the Free Marches will expect a formal announcement of the Wycome Union.”

Sal nodded his head, “Suppose I need to get used to entertain’ the nobles, eh? I’ll work on it. Gotta give me some time to make sure the cow is fed, or else she ain’t gonna make any milk.”

“Of course, Minister. Until then, I will be in contact.” The Margrave turned to walk away with his entourage, but called over his shoulder, ”I look forward to building those roads together.”

The room seemed to hold its breath until the Margrave left, and when at last the doors shut behind him, exclamations of joy and happy applause rose up and filled the air. The Guild members patted Sal’s back, Sar’een clapped her hands politely with a warm smile upon her face, and the Council members hugged their new city brethren openly. It was a moment of triumph they all could savor, one they all shared, and for once, Deshanna felt comforted in this new connection. 

She couldn’t feel that comfort for long, though. The Inquisitor’s work here still wasn’t done, and neither was hers. While others congratulated each other and chatted happily, she sat in her seat, cold as stone, smiling emptily as she waited for the next boulder to roll. 

“Are you alright, Keeper?” Elain whispered from next to her. The Maiden had been unusually quiet during the negotiations, but Deshanna supposed it was because she had refused to take the city. What a surprise it was to hear from her First that the Maiden had turned down a gift of power! But it also left her in her current predicament, and it had changed the entire future of the city --and their clan.

“I’m fine,” she widened her smile, hoping to make Elain believe her words, but the Maiden frowned in return.

“You most certainly are not fine,” she responded tartly. “Your worry is written all over your face. Are you afraid of Sal administering the city? Human retaliation?”

“No…” Deshanna paused, thinking more deeply on her words. Would a lie do her any good? Would it shield her from what was to come? It was probably best to be truthful, if vague. “Well, I am concerned about the future of the city. We’ve worked so hard here, I should hate to see it fail.”

“It won’t,” Elain replied matter-of-factly. “Sal will do right by his people, and we’ll do everything in our power to make sure the merchants keep from reaching too much. These new roads for trade will need protection, and without us, they’re vulnerable to attack.”

“I know, Elain,” she answered with a sigh. “And that’s a terrifying thing, isn’t it? For so long, we’ve been the ones who needed protection, the ones who had to hide in the shadows of the Vimmarks to keep ourselves safe from human interference. Now, we’re the ones interfering. This is a much different life than the one I grew up with.”

“It’s long overdue,” she said solemnly, then took a sip of wine from the goblet she had been holding. When she set it back down, she looked past Deshanna and towards the Inquisitor, “She’s planting seeds for us to grow into something greater than you could’ve imagined in your youth. Greater than even I had imagined. I won’t let fear of the unknown hold us back from growing...and neither should you.”

Deshanna leaned over the desk and sighed, “Trust me, da’len, I’m not. But things are going to change and grow more than you know.”

Elain glanced back at her again, “Oh? How?”

Before she could open her mouth to respond, Sal slapped his palm on the desk a few times to get the attention of the room. They went quiet in anticipation for the speech he was sure to give. Deshanna’s stomach dropped at the movement though. She knew what was coming, and she knew that it was going to change her life. 

Despite what she said, she was scared. Scared of what the future would bring. Scared of failing and seeing her people hurt. Scared of watching the humans turn on Sal and her clan and the Inquisitor. Scared of all the terrible things that could happen.

But most of all, she was scared for herself. 

“I wanna just take a second here to just...just thank you all for what you did here,” he started, and the elves and merchants alike calling back assurances made him grin. 

“I’m not kiddin’. Without you, none of this would be possible. We’d be back to havin’ a know-nothing Duke on the throne, and all the noble piss flowin’ downhill again. But I fought with some of you in the streets of Wycome. Bled with you. Watched Yemet shoot a Tevinter mage in the eye from across an alley then fall on his ass with you,” Yemet laughed loudly at the remark, and some of the guildmembers and hunters whooped their approval. “Saw Rhian and his friends take up broken furniture and dull kitchen knives to fight with us. Hugged the Maiden after we reunited our city elf and Dalish cousins to win the day.”

More shouts of approval, this time the Council joining in and Elain smiling brightly at the new Minister. Deshanna’s hands sweat.

“I mourned with you too. Watched my Dalish cousins bury their dead, then found the bodies of my girls and did the same,” his tone went somber, and the joy that was in the room seemed to be sucked right out of the air. The smiles faded to thoughtful introspection, and the quiet that followed made Sal’s shoulders slump. “We all lost somethin’ here. None of us are walkin’ away without scars on our bodies or scars on our souls; and, in some cases, both. But now that the dust is settling and our lost loved ones have been carried off to better places, it’s time for us to do the same. Time for us to get started on healin’ this city, and more importantly...to start healin’ ourselves. We owe each other that much.”

Murmurs of agreement and approval sprung up, but they were all very subdued. Deshanna was proud of him for being able to hold the attention and respect of all these people. Her fear didn’t stem from whether or not he would be able to do something here, and she attempted to draw on his strength to settle her heart.

“But now, I want to speak with Clan Lavellan about the Union’s future and our continued alliance,” he dismissed the rest of the attendees. “Feel free to join me later when I break out the good drinks in the palace cellar and finally celebrate!”

Laughter and more applause from the crowd, but they understood the dismissal, and many of them got up to leave instead of milling about. They laughed and talked as they made their exit, and once the great wooden doors closed behind the last one of the large group, Sal turned backed to the remaining Council and smiled.

“Keeper Deshanna?”

It was time, and she wasn’t ready, but what choice was there? Sar’een said it was the best way, and that it was time to move on, but this was all she had ever known. What a blow it was to hear how she was no longer needed. And oh, how many times she had heard it before! Her mother who neglected her in favor of her Warlord brother didn’t need her. Her once-husband who found comfort in her sister’s bed did not need her. And now...the avatar of her clan was pushing her away, vying to take her spot in their People’s hearts. 

But fear or not, she stood up with all the grace she could muster and beamed at the Minister. Sal would not second guess what he needed to do because of her inability to cope with rejection. She would make sure of it.

“Yes Minister?” she asked kindly, bowing her head slightly out of respect. He walked away from the desk and towards her, and with and understanding hand, reached out to her. She took his hand gratefully. Mythal’s blessing on this man who knew she was afraid and would not leave her to do this on her own. 

But he surprised her. With a gentle bow, he leaned down and kissed her hand. It was not as graceful or practiced as one would expect from a ruler of a city, but she appreciated it all the more for it. Her heart fluttered as his mouth pressed on her knuckles, then fluttered even faster when he looked back up at her with warmth in his gaze. 

“My thanks for you can’t be told with words,” he started, but he did not drop her hand either. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around hers and held her tenderly. “You never hesitated to come and help my people. When others were unsure and wanted to be safe, you vowed to stand with us. When the Free Army knocked on our door, you vowed to protect us along with your own. You could’ve been punished --or worse-- in some places for that, but here? Here in my Wycome, you’re gonna get my praise and the only other thing I can give.”

He turned towards the Inquisitor and the rest of the clan, his hand still clasping hers. 

“My first act as Minister of Wycome is to reward Clan Lavellan for their bravery, their dedication, and their sheer guts for stayin’ and fightin’ when anyone else would run,” he spoke loudly and proudly, the sincerity of his believe of the contribution no lie. “So for all that, and as a promise of our bright future workin’ together, I’m handin’ over the land rights of the uninhabited Autini Valley to Clan Lavellan and their Keeper. Autini is yours to do whatever you want, but I hope you’ll wanna be part of helpin’ the elves from all over the Free Marches find their voice.”

There were stunned gasps, hearty laughs, and when she looked over all the Council members, there were eyes full of shock as well. Deshanna herself wasn’t surprised at the motion. She, Sar’een, and Sal had discussed it in length the way to move forward and how to further tie the clan with the city before the meeting with the Margrave. If Wycome and Ansburg built up their trade routes and roads, they would be forced to move through parts of the valley. And if Lavellan had control over the valley, safety and honest dealings could be assured. 

But there was more that needed to be done. More she had discussed with her First and Sal before all this came to pass. Plans that made her afraid, that reminded her of how easily people rejected her, how truly inconsequential she was. But in her heart, she knew what Sar’een said was true and knew that she would only be standing in the way. 

_It’s time for a new era, hahren. Let me guide us there._

“Your offer is generous and humbling, Minister Zakros, but I cannot accept this gift,” she started slowly, graciously. There were foul cries and Council members letting their voices be heard, but she ignored them. As did Sal. He knew what was coming, and for as little as it was worth, she found some solidarity in that.

“I cannot accept on behalf of my clan, because as of this moment, I am announcing my retirement as Keeper to Lavellan.”

If there was shock before, there was pandemonium now.

“Deshanna, you cannot be serious!” Loremaster Kellen shouted over the unruly voices rising up. “We’ve already been through enough crises, and you’ll leave us leaderless now?”

“Not leaderless, no,” she shook her head, then pointed her chin at Sar’een. “I have a highly capable First who can handle anything the clan can throw her way. She is more than qualified to lead us into this bright new future.”

Deshanna smiled at Sar’een, who managed a small smile in return. Despite her misgivings, and despite of her hurt, she was still proud of the girl. She had come so far from the young woman who left to go on an adventure over a year ago. There may be no place for her in her clan with this new world quickly approaching, but she did not doubt that Sar’een would see them through. 

“She is tied to the Chantry! She is off fighting battles from the very people who drove the People from our home!” Kellen argued, and several members of the Council nodded their heads in agreement. “How can she possibly see to the needs of the clan if she is busy saving the world?”

“I will not be working for the Chantry forever, Loremaster,” Sar’een deigned it necessary to speak up. “Once the immediate threat is solved, I will return to my family. My clan. My home. And once there, I will continue to uplift my People. In spite of the circumstances that marked me with this magic and made me a target of Corypheus, I am still Dalish. I am still part of this clan. And I am still a mage in line to preserve Lavellan to my best abilities. Whether I am far away or living among you, that does not change.”

“Good riddance, I say,” Den murmured from his seat off to the side of the room. “Out with the old, in with the new. Whole damned world is changing...might as well see what our little First can do to match it. If Wycome’s any gauge to go by, I think she’ll do just fine.”

“I agree,” Elain chimed in, then looked directly at the Inquisitor to speak to her. “Sar’een, you saved the elves in this city, and pushed our clan to go beyond hiding in the valley to wait for the world transitioning to blow over. You’ve pulled us into the maelstrom, but not without making sure we would survive. And more importantly, not without making sure we would be rewarded for it.”

The Maiden turned her head and addressed the entire Council, “Do not undersell what has happened here. Sal’s gift is a tremendous boon for our clan. We will now never have to worry about retaliation for punishing those who would encroach on our hunting grounds. We will never have to worry about going underground until tensions with local communities blow over. We will never have to worry about whether or not we will be able to move between our hunting grounds safely. We have a _home_. Autini is _ours_. The opportunity to grow into this new world is just at our fingertips, and I trust Sar’een implicitly to see it used to its fullest potential.”

"Why can't Deshanna lead us?" Kellen shot back. Deshanna wondered the same herself.

"And what exactly is this _potential_ you speak of, Maiden?"

Vhannas' question was as cold as the dead of winter, as the peak of the Vimmarks. She nearly froze in place at his voice every time he spoke. For as long as she'd led the clan, the Craftmaster always had that effect on her. She sighed silently to herself. Perhaps that was her answer: it was not truly leading if she was afraid of her own charges.

The Craftmaster stood from his seat and slowly drew his hands behind his back, "The _potential_ of selling furs and pelts to unscrupulous traders? The _potential_ of offloading the cedar in the valley to the highest bidder? Or perhaps with your new outlook on human interaction, you will go straight to selling our prized weapons and armor that they will slaughter us with when we least expect it."

Elain laughed, "Such ominous accusations! Had it not occurred to you that by owning land, there is an opportunity to build our own town? Our own city? To sow our own lands and become truly self-sufficient?"

The Maiden stood from her seat as well and stared down her father, "You're seeing phantoms where there are none, Vhannas. So stuck living in the past that you can't see the potential of the future right in front of you. With more things of value to trade, you could receive more valuables in return. New materials to weave your magic into, new methods to practice your forge spells. The possibilities are there, if only you had an imagination to envision it."

Vhannas' eye twitched very slightly, then the corners of his mouth turned into a polite, if insincere smirk, "And you believe what we gain will outweigh the judgment of the Creators for turning our backs on them?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Old Bida brushed him off with a wave of her hand. "The Creators welcome ingenuity and cooperation, and above all, want the People to survive. No one else can keep the Old Ways alive. With land for ourselves, we can build up something better than we've had since the Dales. Resistance against this is childish nonsense."

"It still doesn't explain why Deshanna cannot lead us herself," Kellen pointed out, and several Council members murmured their agreement. 

"She's _old_ ," Bida replied bluntly. 

A dead silence fell over the room at the forthrightness of it, but Deshanna could only slump her shoulders. The old Maiden never did mince her words.

"I hardly think that has anything to do--" Kellen started, but Bida made a loud bzzt with her puckered lips, interrupting him.

"Can't you see past your own nose, impudent one? Can you not see what has been done here?" Bida gestured widely with her trembling hand. "We have crowned an elf as ruler of this city. We have fought back the Free Army. We have earned our own home...the first since the fall of the Dales! We have ushered in the tides of change, and now you balk at the waves come to crash against the shore. Deshanna and Den and you and Vhannas and I...we're all too old to learn to swim. We've spent too long watching and cannot rise above the waves surrounding us. It's time to let the youth who brought about this insurrection guide us to safer shores."

The pang of the truth of her statement stabbed Deshanna in her heart. The change had washed her away, used and spent of all her energy. Her dreams of the death she dealt in this city haunted her, and she knew that when given the chance, she would retreat with the clan into the deepest parts of Autini's forests. But it wasn't what needed to be done. It wasn't the path Lavellan must walk.

"I..." Kellen was dumbstruck at Bida's truth, his mouth agape and his eyes staring at his hands. "I will not argue that change is important, and that the opportunity presented to us is monumental, but...but _this_ is chaotic for many of us. Only a few short weeks ago, we lived our lives as we always do. Traveling and hunting and trading what little we could to support ourselves as best we could. And now, now we leave this human city with a new Keeper. A new Warlord. A new _home_. It's overwhelming."

"I know about change, Loremaster."

Sar'een's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was stern, focused, determined, "I know more about change than anyone here, I'd wager. A few short months ago, I was but a girl waiting to grow into my role in the clan, dreaming of grand adventures and romantic stories I wanted to be part of. In my naivety, I begged to attend the Conclave, hoping to have a story of my own to write, to finally come into my own as part of this clan. Dirthamen granted me those adventures, those stories, but as with all His gifts, the truth of that life came with a high price. My eyes were opened to the cruelty of the world, the dark things humans were capable of. I have seen death and chaos and destruction at the hands of unknowable things, and I have spilled more blood than I could ever reclaim."

"But this enlightenment has strengthened me, steeled me. I have seen the darkness in the world, but it has made me only more determined to bring forth the light. It's why I have worked so hard to free Wycome from the thrall of its nobility. Why I urged our clan to participate in the liberation. It is why I have done all of this...because I know there are greater things for us, much greater, and I am in the best position to provide the guidance to achieve that greatness."

"Deshanna has served our clan well," she went on, "and I thank her for everything she has given us. But Old Bida is right: her way of leading is for a time before the world was upended and we were thrown in the middle of it. Now, there are new challenges to face, new obstacles to overcome, and a bright future to be welcomed. My magic elevated me to be Keeper one day, but my role as Inquisitor has prepared me to be even more than that. I will keep the lost lore, I will keep the Old Ways alive, and I will uplift Clan Lavellan into a new era of prosperity and security. You must believe me when I say that Wycome was only the beginning."

“We believe you, da’len,” Kellen said glumly. “We believe you all too well. It is why this fear and uncertainty has settled among some of us. Too many times in history have our people risen up from the ashes, only to be struck down more forcefully than before.”

Whatever hope Sar’een had wanted to inspire in the Council was lost on deaf ears. With great changes came uncertainty that could not be easily shaken, nor could they afford to shake it. Deshanna knew that they could not stay as they were, however. As soon as their clan’s name was attached to the Inquisitor, they should’ve known they could never melt back into obscurity. 

Deshanna cleared her throat at that thought, and all the eyes in the room fell onto her once more. Perhaps, for the last time. It was bittersweet.

“I do not trust these humans, da’len. Not for an inch of their life. If they see weakness, they will find a way to use it in their favor. The Margrave may be full of words of cooperation now, but if he sees fortune slipping into Lavellan’s hands instead of his, he will retaliate. It’s the way of these shemlen.”

Sar’een nodded solemnly, “I know, hahren.”

“No, I do not trust them at all,” she continued, wringing her hands as she did so. “But I trust _you_. I know with all my heart that you will lead our clan into the light. Let that be enough...for all of us.”

There was a hushed murmur that went over the Council, no one quite sure how to react, what to say. Deshanna could not blame them. Kellen was right: this was chaos. They had never weathered a storm such as this before.

“I put my faith in you as well,” Bida spoke up, and her voice resonated through the library, a testament to the strength of her faith. 

But that did not seem to be enough for the old Maiden. To immediate protests from around around her, Bida leaned her weight on her walking stick, and with great effort, attempted to stand from her chair. Elain and Revas both rushed to her side, each grabbing an arm to balance her, and her frail form trembled frighteningly as she attempted to hold the weight of her body up. 

“ _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila_.” 

Den stood up from his seat, his body not as shaky as the old Maiden's, but just as battered from time. " _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila._ "

" _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila_." Elain this time, her voice lending power to the rite being initiated.

" _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila._ " Sohta. _"Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila_." Aricia. " _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila_." Kellen.

" _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila_." Vhannas said it as well, quietly, but the words were spoken and could not be returned. 

So they had all come around. Deshanna smiled sadly, knowing she must go the same way. She made her way over to Sar'een, step by step, treading in the silence as the Council waited anxiously for her. Let them wait though. It would be the last thing she would do as their leader, and she wanted to savor it. 

The sunlight shining through the stained glass windows of the room warmed her face, and the smell of incense and ancient tomes filled her nostrils. It wasn't the beloved Wild her people had come to find safety in, but it felt sanctifying in any case. In the end, the location didn't matter anyways. The People have wandered for centuries. Wherever they were was home.

Now her hands shook as she loosened the sylvanwood ring from her finger, and her knuckle provided one last barrier from her retirement. It was swiftly overcome, and when the ring was free, she felt bare. Empty. 

Deshanna grabbed Sar'een's unmarked hand gently, and with careful consideration, slid the ring onto her finger. 

" _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila._ "

Sar'een's eyes glistened for only a moment, as if tears wanted to come, but she shooed them away with lightning speed, and her face became as still as stone. Her jaw set in determination, and her chin was held high. Such a far cry from the little girl Deshanna knew, but what a force she had grown into. Letting her have this was the right thing to do.

Deshanna let the tears spill from her eyes instead. Tears from fear, loss, rejection, and the realization that it was well and truly over. She had abdicated her right to lead, and now she had nothing left to offer but unheeded wisdom and another mouth that would need fed. 

Everyone became a burden as time passed, she supposed. Even her.

\---

"Thank you. I will carry my duties out to the best of my abilities, and I swear my undying devotion to you...my friends. My family. My clan."

Sal watched the display unfold with a little ache in his heart. For all these halla-shit eaters' in fighting and arguing, they sure did let it all drop when it was time to move on. Solidarity in their common cause; it was something Sal could appreciate, and something he knew quite well.

As much as a pain in the ass the Guild could be, he could always depend on them. And even if they all didn't agree, they would still come together if the community was threatened. These Dalish and his folks were a lot more alike than he originally thought, and he was happy to know that there was some things they could share. 

"We trust you, Keeper, but what will happen now? Will you return south to the Chantry?" 

Sal didn't know who was asking it. One of the older members of their council, the one that was giving the Maiden some troubles. He leaned his back against the cold, stone wall and watched to see how the Inquisitor would answer. Couldn't deny his curiosity on that answer was piqued.

"I must," the Inquisitor stated. "Corypheus is still out there, though his plans have been severely hindered. I cannot stop my work in the south until he has been defeated entirely. The doom he's brought down must come to an end."

"Then what shall we do?"

The Inquisitor pushed her chair back under the desk, as if she was making to leave. 

"The clan shall return to Autini and begin settling. More permanent homesteads must be made, paths must be paved, preparations for the incoming construction of main roads through the valley must be overseen," she explained, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I cannot be there to enact all that must be done, and there is only one person I trust to see it through in my absence."

She turned to the Maiden, staring her straight down like a proud parent presenting their talented child.

"In my capacity as both Keeper of Clan Lavellan and Inquisitor to the Inquisition, I hereby name Elain of Clan Lavellan as Ambassador of the North. She will oversee the transition of our settlement, make sure provisions are accounted for, promises are kept with the local nobles, and ties to Wycome stay strong. She will act as my voice in my absence. I trust her implicitly to do for Lavellan what she has done for Wycome, and I will leave the administration of our new settlement in her very capable hands."

“You can’t be serious!” the whiny member cried out. “By Mythal, this is too much!”

“Agreed,” the Maiden’s father said icily. That man chilled Sal to the bone. “The Maiden has abandoned her duties and forsaken our clan. I disagree with this appointment and demand a review.”

The Inquisitor narrowed her eyes, “The Maiden fought for the victims of Wycome while heavily with child. If anything, I think that says more about how seriously she takes her duties than anything else. But, if you insist…”

She crossed her arms over her chest, “I’ve reviewed my decision and find it acceptable, based on the merits of Elain’s abilities, as well as the allies she already has in Wycome and the efforts she has put forth here.”

“And if we still don’t agree with it?” the father asked venomously. 

“Then petition the High Keeper of the Dalish,” she answered impatiently. “And here I thought I was the new one at this.”

It earned a few chuckles, including from Deshanna and Sal himself. She was whip smart, that one.

The Maiden's face stayed humble through the entire exchange, gracious even, but something in the way her mouth turned up in a smile made Sal realize she was surprised. Surprised, but also mighty pleased with herself. She didn't expect this coming, but if he knew the Maiden, he knew she wouldn't turn it down for nothing.

"Thank you for your confidence, Keeper. I will serve our clan's interests on your behalf with all the dedication that I serve the Lady of the Hunt."

There were a few snarky whispers and scoffs from the crowd, but it didn't seem to bother the Maiden one bit. Sal grinned at that. She was a soul of stone, she was.

"I know you will," the Inquisitor smiled at her, then turned her attention back to the council members."Now, we have much to discuss, but as you can imagine, this situation has left me exhausted. I will go rest for a few hours so that tonight, we can celebrate our victory in Wycome, and the bright future just on the horizon!"

There was polite applause, words of congratulations, and conversations turning to one another as the Inquisitor excused herself and walked out of the room. Sal watched her closely as she passed by, and he knew what she said wasn’t a lie: the kid was exhausted. Her skin was pale as death, her eyes were sunken and swollen all at once, and as put together as she was trying to seem, he could always tell when there was a seam being tested. Something to keep in mind as he began his work in the city. 

As he watched her leave, he missed the Maiden sneaking up on him. When he turned his head back around, there she was, standing before him, grinning like a cat that caught the canary.

He grinned right back, “You look pretty damned pleased with yourself.”

“Things went better than I expected today,” she said as she leaned onto the wall in the spot next to him. “You didn’t tell me about the valley.”

“Didn’t have nothin’ to tell you,” he assured her. “Didn’t know I was gonna be takin’ up the reins here ‘til last night in any case. All your fault, by the way.”

She laughed, “I know. And I’m sorry for it. We all assumed I would be sitting on the throne here, didn’t we?”

“I know I sure as hell did...but maybe it’s better this way. Yemet --and Clover too probably-- woulda got sick of your bullshit and given you no end of headaches. At least I know how to deal with the Guild and make them happy.”

“And the merchants?” she questioned.

“They mostly take care of themselves. I’ve got a few bones to throw to that dwarf and your Lady friend, but it’ll sort itself out. Long as the goods keep flowing from the Amaranthine and into their pockets, they aren’t gonna be a problem,” he sighed. “‘Least I hope not. Can’t count our chickens before they hatch.”

“Whatever I can do, name it,” Elain said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You don’t know what a great gift you and your people have given me. I will spend the rest of my days trying to repay it.”

“No need, Maiden. You put your neck out and put your people on the line to save mine. There’s nothing to repay,” he reminded her. Sal couldn’t forget seeing her command a battle and fight to its bitter end while pregnant. For all her haughtiness, the Maiden didn’t do it all for show. There was something very real there, even if she seemed oblivious of its existence. 

"Still..." she trailed off, staring at the Council breaking up and members taking their leave of the room. "I don't think you understand how important this is for us. Never mind the ones who are acting apprehensive; even they know that having our own land, our own place to call home..."

"Do you know what _'vhenas'_ means in our language?" she changed the subject, though didn't turn to look at him.

He shook his head, "Nah. All I know is ' _shem_ '. Didn't see a reason to learn anything else."

"It means ' _home_ '," she started. "Long ago, I'm sure it was quite literal. A domicile where families may have lived, big or small, rich or poor. The word probably meant little more than something to describe the place in which you reside. It feels a human thing, but why would the Old Empire think any different? Their lands spanned Thedas, and many people lived richly there. But here...now...it's taken to mean something more."

"The Dalish are defined by the loss of our homeland," she continued calmly. "We pride ourselves on not surrendering our culture and our heritage to join in with human society. And as we've separated ourselves, things that we have tried to hard to preserve have changed with us. Things like _vhenas_. Home."

"It's not where we retire every night after a long day. It's not what we look forward to seeing again after a long trip. It's not a sickness we get when we miss an arbitrary geographical location if we are away. _Vhenas_...home...it's our heart. It's where we find ourselves, both physically and mentally. It's the feeling of being with your family near a hearth. It's the taste of fish you caught in your spear that morning. It's the smell of cedar in the air, the wisp of clouds floating over the Vimmarks on clear, summer days. It's also the rotting carcass of an animal who met its end. A frozen river that will tempt curious children to an icy death. A storm that destroys an entire season of work in one tumultuous night."

"Home is the good and the bad for us. It's the love we carry with us, and the pain. Our many triumphs and our numerous failures. Whatever we carry in our heart is our home, and home is always near us. But you've changed that. _Vhenas_ will change again, as we Dalish have change, and it will one day mean something completely different."

"Didn't mean to take your sentimentality away, Maiden," he said. She made it sound so dire, but at the words, her eyes widened and she looked at his face.

"You haven't. You've just...made something new. Everything is changing here, but something new will come out of it. There's no way of knowing if it will better or worse so early, but no matter what, it will happen," she paused and took in a deep breath. " _Vhenas_ will change. We will change. I will change. Nothing will ever be the same as it was. It's frightening and exciting all at once, Sal. But after all that has been done here, all that we've shared, I feel...optimistic. I believe that we can do something greater. We can change the words, and by the extension, the world. You and I."

He gave a chuckle and shook his head. She was sure riding on some fierce high from winning this round, but he knew her. Knew her from the moment she threw herself in his business and demanded he do better for his people. The Maiden would never be satisfied with just a partnership and working together. No, not at all. And he had to let her know it.

"Paints a pretty picture, doesn't it? Dalish and city folks gettin' along and makin' the world a better place," Sal answered her. "Too bad that's just a pipe dream from kids smokin' on it too long. You and me...we're gonna bump heads and we're gonna fight over shit. Just the way of things. Runnin' a city that's already there is different from buildin' a city from the ground up. You're gonna ask for more and more, and there's only gonna be so much I can give. So yeah, changin' the words sounds nice. So does changin' the world. But let's not pretend we both don't know that there's holes the size of a canyon down that road."

Elain laughed, "And there goes the wind from my sails. Have you always been so pessimistic?"

Sal gave her a wink, "Only when it comes to Maidens who want to have the entire world on a gold platter."

"Maybe not the entire world. Not yet, at least," she still held her grin, then moved away. "You'll have to excuse me, though. The clan will need to prepare to leave, and I have some debts to pay with Ser Davri."

He caught her on the shoulder before she could walk away and stopped her.

"A piece of advice now that this shit is all official?" She nodded, agreeing to hear it.

"Don't pretend to be somethin' you're not, Elain. You lettin' go of the city will be better in the long run, but we both know how long that’s gonna last. You’re changin’ sure, but some things can’t change. Don’t be afraid of that. Embrace it."

She laid an understanding hand on his and nodded her understanding, "Thank you, Sal. For everything. I'll be in touch soon."

Her smile left her as she turned around and walked away, her cloak swishing gently on the floor behind her. He hoped she'd listen. Would be damn hard to change the world if she just kept punishing herself for being who she was. 

"That was wise of you."

Sal was startled out of his thoughts, unaware that Deshanna was still sitting at the now abandoned desk. She looked as if every bit of life had been drained from her face. He sighed, knowing she probably felt like it had been too. 

He crossed the room and pulled out the chair next to her sitting down, "Don't know about it being wise. Just wanted to give her some perspective."

"I know," she said sadly. "It was the right thing to say. The Inquisitor will expect much out of her, and if she tries to over-extend herself to please everyone, she will fail. Luckily, I know Elain, and I know that these changes of heart only last as long as they suit her needs."

Sal picked up someone's leftover cup of wine and took a deep drink, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that sounds bitter."

"You don't need to lecture me about it. I know it's bitter," she sighed. "I can't help myself. My entire life has been nothing but building myself up to be a leader. And I couldn't do it. Not now, not then, not ever. Sar'een was right to ask me to retire. I'd only pull us backwards."

"I don't know about that,” he replied. “You were brave enough to be the first to fight for us here. You could be brave enough to lead the clan.”

She looked up at him, "What a joke! I wasn’t even brave. I just did it because I thought it would only mean moving refugees out of the city. I didn’t know what it would entail, and if I had...gods, I don’t know if I would have even come. And now, Elain made all these promises and plans. What would I even do with all those promises? I'd be so lost. Lost like I am now."

"Smart lady like you? You'd figure it out," he tried to build her up, but he could tell it wasn't going to help her all that much.

"I was just never meant to belong, I suppose," she tried to force a smile. "But what's done is done. Clan Lavellan has a new Keeper, and I can look forward to not having the pressure of keeping everyone together on my shoulders. I should try to look forward to that."

"Maybe you could take it as a blessin'," he joked with her. "Instead of bein' like me and spendin' your middle years gettin' pushed into rulin' a city, despite not knowin' the first thing about rulin'."

She laughed this time, "I suppose that's true! Though, I think you'll do just fine. You're a good man, Sal."

"And you're a good woman, Deshanna. I'd be so lucky to have someone like you around."

Her cheeks reddened a little at the remark, "Oh, stop Sal."

He got a sudden urge to make them do that all the time. Just tell her everyday how lucky people are to be around her, and just sit back and watch those cheeks blush. Could be worse things to see. Could be worse things to focus his attention on. She got the short end of the deal, one she didn't deserve, and the Dalish were worse off for it. 

"Hey," he said softly, laying his hand on top of hers, "I mean it. I could really use someone like you here. You've been through all this. You know how to lead, how to ration, how to navigate all this political bullshit. If you stayed here, you could help me figure it all out. And give me a friend I know won’t stick a knife in my back."

She patted the top of his hand, "That's generous of you, but surely you have other people--"

"That's the thing!" he interrupted her. "The nobles here aint' gonna have the power they used to. The merchants? They don't know about protectin' shit. The Guild? Never had to worry about epidemics or survivin' rough seasons. You kept your folks alive and kept them well...you could do the same thing here. You could help me with the shit I don't know myself. Help me...just help me stop myself from trippin' over my own feet!"

"You will do just fine," she smiled sadly. 

"I don't wanna do just fine," he pleaded with her. "I wanna do good. I wanna do right by everyone here. I wanna make it up to all the people who died here. I wanna make my girls..."

He started to tear up and his voice caught in his throat. 

"I wanna make this city one my girls woulda been proud to call home. But I can't do it alone. I need good people around me, helpin' me, givin' me ideas. And I don't know anyone right now as good as you."

Tears welled up in her eyes as well, "I don't know what to say."

"I need you, Desh. Just say yes."

Silent streams of those tears fell down her eyes, onto those blushing cheeks, flowing down to her chin. She didn't seem to mind them. Instead, she wrapper her fingers around his palm tightly and gave him a genuine smile.

"Yes."

\---

Sar’een didn’t feel any better after she slept. There was the slight hope that it would help, that it would wash away the taste of inevitability in her mouth, but all it gave her was restless dreams and a bristling against her skin that would not leave. 

She washed her face in the tiny basin in her chambers and smoothed down her hair away from her eyes. There was no time to try to rest again. She could already hear the laughter and music drifting into her ears from the Great Hall of the palace. The people here were celebrating a hard won fight and a new future, and of course the Inquisitor would be expected to attend. Even if the victory tasted hollow to her, even if it only signified larger fights in the future, it was still her duty.

Sar’een set out to join the others in their celebrations and did her best to put on a happy face when she arrived to the bright, loud hall, full of elves and humans alike. She had hoped to join the others without any fanfare, but when she was noticed by her clan, there were great shouts of welcome and happy cheers. People sprung up from their seats and clamored towards her, eager to ingratiate themselves with the new Keeper. Or in the human's’ case, ingratiate themselves with what they might see as the new shadow-ruler of Wycome.

Her fake smile grew wider at their welcome, and she rested easier knowing that in spite of everything else, she had not put a puppet in charge of the city. Elain was right to suggest Sal; he was charismatic, connected with the community, and had a way of convincing people to do the right thing. She had no doubt Wycome would be in capable hands, and that her role here would be limited to removing the red lyrium and supplying the rebuilding efforts with what she could. 

After entertaining questions and congratulations from other members of her clan, Sar’een decided to seek out the last loose end she had to tie before going to defeat Corypheus. She scanned the room, and saw her target huddled at a small table in a corner of the hall, near a great hearth. To her surprise, he was in comfortable conversation with Solas.

She made her way towards them, crossing through the masses of bodies and nodded her greetings to those who called out to her along the way. But the socializing thinned the closer she drew to that secluded little corner, and she did her best to try to listen to what they were speaking of so intimately. 

“And you say it can be reformed through magic alone?”

Solas nodded over his cup to Paeris’ eager questioning,”Yes, though not without difficulty. I’ve spent my life wandering the Fade through dreams, listening and learning. My travels showed me many ways to manipulate the Fade’s constructs. But as with all things that dabble in creation, they are not easily accomplished.”

“This means the Fade is an entirely magical construct itself,” Paeris mused on the information. “Only an artifice could be manipulated in such a way.”

“That is the conclusion I’ve drawn,” Solas replied. “Though how it came to be is still academic.”

Paeris waved his hand in the air, “True, but even metaphysical studies can be seen with practical application. Have you tried reformation yourself?”

Solas looked down at his mug with a furrowed brow, “On many occasions. However, my power as a mage is lackluster compared to the well in which one would need to draw on to reshape the Fade in ways that can be seen substantially from across the Veil. If it were even possible.”

“The beauty of the academic is there is always someone willing to try,” Paeris pointed out. “Sadly, I am not a somniari. If your power is insufficient, I doubt mine would have any kind of effect.”

“You never know,” he said with a shrug. “I have seen many strange things in my time walking this world and the Fade. Perhaps being a Dreamer is not a requirement. Or perhaps Dreamers are only Dreamers because they’ve found some untapped potential within themselves.”

“More topics for academic research, I suppose,” Paeris smiled. 

“Indeed,” Solas chuckled. “One I’d be interested in diving deeper into with you, if you were---Inquisitor!”

Sar’een smiled at the two of them, “I did not mean to interrupt. Please, continue.”

Solas pushed away from the table and stood up, “No, it’s quite alright. I’m finding myself rather...intrigued after this conversation. The Fade calls, and I want to answer.”

“Of course,” Sar’een nodded. Paeris grinned up at him. 

“Pleasant dreams, lethallin. Do keep me updated on your progress.”

Her companion gave a slight bow of his head, and dismissed himself from their company. When he was out of earshot, Sar’een took his seat next to Paeris and folded her hands over each other on the table. The drink he left behind was tempting, but she needed her wits about her to have this discussion. Something told her it would be treacherous to believe otherwise.

“So Little Dove,” he started, staring carefully at her, “I have heard Lavellan now owns their own territory. Congratulations! My former clan now joins the ranks of those of us who have seen the error of trying to live in the past.”

“I don’t think the clan plans on abandoning the past, hahren. They’ve just been rewarded for the deeds the helped accomplish here,” she reminded him. “Sometimes it’s just simple. No politics, no ulterior motives. A gift given to those who deserve it most.”

His eyes narrowed on her, “I would nearly believe that, if you hadn’t ascended as Keeper of the clan. What a _clever_ little surprise you’ve woven. One I did not expect. It seems my Little Dove has turned into an eagle when I was not looking.”

A chill ran up her spine at his words. She felt as if she was being circled like prey.

“I don’t know why you didn’t expect it. You shaped me into who I am, after all.”

“So I did,” he said darkly. There was a tension building, and she knew it wasn’t just her mind playing games on her. “And what a convenient little surprise too! As Keeper of Lavellan, you will sit on the High Council I will call to have Elain’s indiscretions brought to trial. You will act on her behalf as her Keeper. You will surely have secrets to hold against me, making it harder for me to build a case against her and the scions that aided her.”

“And I can bring Llyn’s death into the light,” she finished. Paeris frowned at her as if he had tasted rotting meat.

“A clever little surprise indeed,” he replied acidly.

 _Be brave,_ she whispered to herself. _You have to do this. For Llyn. For Paeris. For your People._

“I will see he is given the justice he deserves, hahren. You cannot continue to throw away lives for your vision of the future.”

“I’ve thrown away nothing!” he hissed. “I am trying to build an Empire, and you are fixated on trivial matters that will do nothing but absolve you of the blood you have shed over these months! Llyn is not coming back, but his death can mean more. It can mean the end of the People’s suffering, and it can mean the rise of the People’s power. You are blind if you are willing to throw it away for the life of one hunter!”

“That one life could be the difference between us having an Empire and us falling to dust. You cannot so callously throw lives away and expect something to grow,” she had angered him, and her entire body trembled because of it. But she was doing this for him. Let him have his happy ending. Let him have what she could not. “I will not ask you to call off the High Council, but know this: you will be put on trial as much as the Maiden. And I will not forget all that you’ve told me. By everything in my soul, I promise you that Llyn will not rot away in vain due to your ambition.”

He laughed. It was as false as a demon.

“And yet, here you are, giving more power to the Maiden than she has had before! What of her role in his death? What of her sins? Will you let her go free without having to pay a price?”

She frowned as she looked down on the table, “The High Council will decide that, as it should be. But if you were to ask me, her sins are far less than yours. She fell in love and had a child, then did as was expected of her as Maiden. You made her believe there were hostages. You made her believe that you would rip her title away and have her separated from the only life she’s known. You orchestrated this all, Paeris, and it shames me to know it.”

“Oh, da’len,” he spoke gently now, but there was not warmth to it. “You still harbor that childish idealism inside, don’t you? Well, it is no matter. You will learn soon enough the cruelty that authority brings is better used than forgotten.”

“You do _not_ know what I have been through to assume I don’t know cruelty.”

Paeris picked up his cup and took a sip from its edge, “I suppose not. Nor would I want to. Spending months under the thumb of the Chantry holds no interest for me.” He set his cup down, “Ah, maybe I am wrong though. Only time will tell, hmm? Perhaps you will rise up and be the beacon in which all Dalish turn to. Or perhaps you will become a martyr to a cause you want nothing to do with. Only Dirthamen knows the future, and He has not whispered the secrets to me.”

“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” she said softly, “but you brought this upon yourself. And you forced me to make a choice.”

“That I did, though I did not know it at the time,” he agreed. “Let me tell you a story, Little Dove.”

“I have no time for stories anymore, hahren.”

His brow creased in disappointed, “Indulge me.”

She sighed and sat back in her chair, but said nothing to interrupt him. 

“In the days of the Old Empire, there was a hunter,” he started, his voice tuned to the soft, lilting rhythm that made his stories so interesting to hear. “He was powerful. Prestigious. A prince in his kingdom. He came from a long line of hunters, all of them who worshipped Andruil whole-heartedly. His aunt and one of his sisters even served as a Maiden, as a sign of the family’s dedication to the Lady of the Hunt. But as with all hunters, eventually, the thrill of the chase dulls and the ecstasy of the kill lessens with each beast that is brought down.”

“The hunter sought to remedy this by looking for more dangerous game. There were stories of a Black Forest, far and away from the gentle woods of his family’s home. The stories told of violent beasts and perpetual night, a true hellscape to navigate. The hunter was not discouraged. Instead, he packed his traveling bags, mounted his war halla, and rode off to the East, following the sunrise until he came upon a forest so dark, no light could pass through it. He had found the Black Forest, and the rumbling of beasts from within stirred his heart.”

“He entered the forest as a prince, ready to bring this domain to heel, but he first steps were a challenge. The trees were so dark and hard, they were as if they were made of stone. And the grass and underbrush were so dry and brittle, it was as if they were made of glass. The forest seemed to be eternal and ever-changing, all at once, and no more than an hour into his adventure, the hunter was hopelessly lost.”

“The hunter tried to navigate the labyrinthine forest by following the river he found, but it flowed like sand in a desert, constantly shifting, changing, never staying in one place. And the water was black as well. Black as pitch, as night, as the inside of the Void. He dipped his hands just below the surface, and saw nothing reflecting back at him underneath. This forest was truly a nightmare, and the hunter knew he had entered the domain of a demon.”

“When he tried to escape, the brittle grass broke and regrew, higher and higher each time. The river shifted and flowed around him, taking the stone trees and moving them to different places. There was no way to find a way out of a landscape that constantly changed, and the hunter grew despondent. But even more importantly, the hunter grew _hungry_.”

“So with little else he could do, he hunted. He searched for tracks, but found none. Searched for signs of beasts, and found none. He looked for any signs of life in this place, and to his dismay, found it lacking. He spent three days looking, each day making his outlook look more and more bleak, until at last, he caught a glimmer. It was a white stag, tall and majestic, and absolutely luminous against the Black Forest’s void. He followed the stag, and the stag ran from him, leading him into deeper, darker parts of the forest. But the hunter refused to submit, refused to give up.”

“The trees grew more dense as he gave chase to the stag. The river flooded the darkest areas and made it like a marsh. He struggled to move through mud that came up to his thighs, while the stag walked on it as if it were as solid as stone. But the hunter did not give up. He pressed on, until he reached the heart of the Forest. Inside, stood the largest tree he had ever seen. It seemed to reach up to the heavens, its black branches like evil fingers touching the lifeless sky, and just at the roots, the stag laid down.”

“The hunter took his chance and pulled out his bow, aiming his arrow directly for the stag’s heart. But just as his fingers were to release their grip, a sharp, blinding pain emanated from his chest, and when he looked down, a golden arrow tip had pierced him through.”

“The hunter fell to the floor of the Black Forest, his life flashing before his eyes, and the killer that stood above him was luminous, like the stag, but also decayed and ancient. The hunter realized it was he had been hunted. Lured into the Forest, then lured deeper still, so that he could be made prey of. He looked up one last time at the ancient entity who had snared him in Her trap, and asked why.”

“The Huntress merely laughed, and yanked the golden arrow from his chest, leaving him dead on the forest floor. His soul had already left his body when the Huntress answered: ‘ _Because it was my Will_.’”

“It was Andruil hunting him,” Sar’een said once his story was finished. “I remember you telling me this one.”

“Yes,” he answered her coldly. “It’s a lesson futility. A lesson for all those who reach too far and are not satisfied with what their Creators have given. Find contentment in your duty, lest you find yourself as prey for the darker aspects of our Gods. And that way only leads to death.”

She knew better now to take his lessons at face value. He was giving her something with this story, something to take away and learn from. More than just honoring the gods and being a good elf. This was deeper. Darker. 

And she understood. He was her creator, after all.

“You’re threatening me,” she stated stoically. It was better not to give him the power in knowing he had frightened her. He would eventually use it against her if he could.

“Yes,” he confirmed, then stood from his seat at the table. “Good luck with everything, Inquisitor. We shall meet again next year when the High Council assembles.”

And without another word, he left her alone at the secluded table, isolated and away from everyone else in the room, with no one but herself to chew on the words he had said. That loneliness was bitter, but nothing was as bitter as the feeling that she had truly and fully spread her wings, and with one last look behind, flew away from the nest that nurtured her.

There was no going back now. And that, more than anything else in Wycome, hardened Sar’een’s heart to stone.

\---

Revas never liked Llyn as much as his other friends. Twig and Sorn and Bran...they were all fun and loud and enjoyable to be around. Llyn was always harder though. His whining, his doubts, his need for validation and constant overcompensation...that grated on Revas’ nerves. Still, when he wasn’t all those things, he was a good hunting partner and always had some dried elfroot ready to share. Long shifts on patrol weren’t so long when he and Llyn sat by the river and smoked their late afternoons away.

He missed him already. Missed that anxious energy, missed that insecurity, even missed the near constant complaints. And with him dead, Revas only now realized how much he should’ve tried to spend more time with him. Helped him more instead of laughing at him. Supported him instead of losing his temper at him. Creators, what he wouldn’t do to hear him again.

The events of the day came and went like a flood, washing him away in the current, simply because he couldn’t keep his mind off his friend. Llyn haunted him, even as their clan got a new home and a new Keeper. Llyn was all he could see as the future unfolded before him. 

Perspective was hard like that. He was smarter now, more calm, less prone to let his anger control him, but it was too late to change that between him and Llyn. So he brooded silently while everyone celebrated, thinking hard on how he could change himself once more so none of his hunters met the same fate as Llyn. It was all on him now, after all.

That was until Heliwr grabbed onto the lobe of his ear and yanked him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, hey. Stop that,” he gently scolded him, pulling his little talons away, but was still impressed by his grip. Heliwr only looked at him with wide-open eyes on his wobbly head, as if he understood what his father told him, but was shocked that he would even say it.

“Looks like he wants your attention,” Yemet commented as he took his seat next to him in the Great Hall. He opened another bottle of mead and poured it into his and Revas’ mugs, letting them take over where they had left off. He supposed he’d have to make an effort now to focus on anything but Llyn. It’d be a nice distraction, at least.

Revas lifted his mug with his free hand and took a drink before answering, “He’s lucky he’s the only one I’ll make time for. Everyone else is going to have to get in line.”

“That busy?”

He put down his mug and bounced Heliwr gently in his arm, “Yeah. Got a new Keeper, a new Ambassador, a new home...I’ve got to prepare my hunters for the changes coming in. Nothing’s going to be like it was.”

“True that,” Yemet agreed, lifting his mug. “Runnin’ into the same problem myself. Sal named me Guard Captain of Wycome. Me...Guard Captain.”

He gave a laugh, “A thief, now in charge of the guard. What will the shems think?”

“Don’t give a right fuck what they think, to be perfectly honest,” Yemet grinned widely. 

“You shouldn’t. You and your people are the only reason there are any elves left in this fucking city,” he replied. “They would’ve been slaughtered to the last, if you hadn’t stepped up.”

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. Yemet didn’t like talking what happened to his people, and Revas couldn’t blame him. He still remembered the Minanter Stand, and the months of being unable to sleep soundly as the sound of the river reached his ears in his yurt. Those kind of fights never really leave. They just find homes in the battlegrounds where they were fought, seeping into the very stone and dust that held the blood that was spilled. He wondered if Llyn’s phantom would find their new home too.

“I needed to talk to you about it, though,” Yemet quickly changed the subject, and Revas was happy for it. “The thing is...being a thief is a lot different from being a guard. We’ve watched guard rotations and know how that all works. We know how to use our weapons. But my kids aren’t really trained for all this.”

“Isn’t the Grandmaster stepping in? Doesn’t she have other guild members navigating along the Minanter and guarding border towns?” he suggested.

“Clover? I guess I could ask her, but…” he trailed off, then looked around them, as if he was making sure no one was listening in; then, he lowered his head towards Revas, along with his voice, “Tevinter borders are far away. Autini isn’t. And all these new roads and trade routes the Margrave wants between Wycome and Ansburg and the rest of the Free Marches? It ain’t happenin’ without goin’ through Autini.”

“And?”

“And if it goes through Autini, it ain’t gonna be my patrols guarding the caravans,” Yemet continued. “That’s gonna fall on your hunters. And my thinkin’ is this: if I send my new recruits to you for skirmish training, well...then we’re buildin’ camaraderie among the ranks. They come back with perspective on how you work and help me keep a hold on the city here, and for your trouble, you got a whole new bunch of people willing to work with you. And only you.”

Revas furrowed his brow at the plan, “Build up a partnership with my hunters and the city guard, keep them cross trained so we can supply seamless reinforcements when needed; so,in the event of an attack, we don’t have to rely on the Free Army to supplement our forces.” 

“Exactly.”

“Does the Minister know about it?” he asked him.

“Sal? He was the one who suggested it,” Yemet grabbed his mug and drank deeply, then set down the empty vessel with a hollow clang. “You didn’t hear it from me, but word from the top says that the Maiden promised Lavellan’s hunters as personal guards for the caravans that are gonna start movin’ through the valley. That dwarf who pushed the Margrave knew he was gonna have access to your hunting grounds before the meetin’ happened, and the Maiden was the one who agreed to it. Our new Minister thinks that now that she’s Ambassador, she might cut out the middleman. Deal directly with the merchants of Wycome without going through the city channels. Sal likes your girl, but he don’t trust her not to reach for more. So he wants backups, just in case.”

“Why come to me?”

Yemet wiped his mouth on his sleeve, “Thought you were the Warlord now? Don’t Warlords wanna to know what’s going on with their hunters?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then here’s your way,” he explained. “Intermingle Wycome’s forces and Lavellan’s forces, train them together, get them real cozy. Then, you got me to feed you info from inside the city and provide extra forces when needed, I got you to back me up if the Free Army comes marchin’ again, and if Sal’s right, we got a way to undermine the Maiden if she gets too thirsty.”

Revas frowned as he went over his options, and despite what Yemet had told him, he found himself less angry over the situation as much as he was concerned. No matter what she had done leading up to this, it didn’t miss his notice that Elain wasn’t named as the successor of the city. And it also didn’t miss his notice that Sar’een was making her own moves, unbeknownst to the rest of the Council --Elain included. His strength wasn’t in the politics, but even he could see that there was methodology in this chaos, and the pieces were being placed carefully.

It was about damn time Revas stopped waiting around to see what he’d be swept up into and start moving his own pieces into place instead. He couldn’t undo what happened to Llyn, but he could make sure it never happened to another one of the hunters under his command again. 

He flashed a smile at Yemet, “When do you want to start sending them my way?”

Yemet barked a laugh and laid a hand on his shoulder, “Knew you’d see it the right way. Even told Sal you would. Feels good bein’ right for once.”

“You’re not right yet. We still have to make it work,” Revas reminded him. “Your people might not even want to spend time with us in Autini. No big walls and rows of houses for them to slink between.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re resilient bunch. If red lyrium can’t kill us, I don’t think twigs and leaves will either,” Yemet said cheekily before grabbing Revas’ mug and downing the rest of the mead inside. But when he slammed the mug back down, his eyebrows rose and he pointed his chin towards the entrance of the hall. “Looks like someone’s coming for you.”

It was Elain. She was gliding across the crowded hall with a glint of purpose in her eyes and her cloak trailing behind her. He tried not to get too complacent, but she had a way still of making everyone else in the room disappear; to make him focus on nothing but her. Visions of the night before crept into his mind, and while here she was all command, all power, he remembered vividly just how much she was willing to be vulnerable for him. It softened his heart, and a small nagging guilt began to gnaw on his brain for his part in plotting with Yemet behind her back.

“Good evening, Guildmaster,” when she approached, she greeted Yemet curtly, even giving him a little bow.

“Guard Captain now,” he replied. She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Guard Captain,” Elain repeated him sweetly, “What a proud title! It must feel wonderful to break the bonds of your vagabond club and move onto better pastures.”

“You got a real way with words, Maiden,” Yemet drawled out with a grin, “but I’ve got good drinks in my belly, so I’ll let them slide this time.”

“How magnanimous of the Guard Captain!”

“Venavis, Elain,” Revas stopped her from toying with Yemet. He didn’t want to have to break up another fight between the two. She crinkled up her nose at his patronizing, but instead of picking an argument, she merely shrugged her shoulders innocently and let her lips settle on a small smirk.

“Very well. Congratulations are in order in any case,” she relented. “You’ve earned this title, Yemet. There is no one in this city who has worked as hard as you to protect the elves living here.”

“Damn straight!” he raised his mug at her statement as he attempted to pour more mead inside.

“I do need to steal the interim Warlord away from you for a moment, however,” she continued without acknowledging Yemet’s toast. “We have an unfinished matter to address.”

“What is it?” Revas asked.

“Our last dance here ended rather poorly. I want to make it up to you before we return home.”

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough to dance,” he laughed at her request, but her eyes pleaded with him in a way he knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

“For me then?”

Revas gave a great sigh and stood up from his chair at the table, careful not to jostle Heliwr in his arms, “Alright, but Da’assan comes with.”

She placed a soft kiss on his cheek in gratitude, “I’m willing to share you...for now.”

Elain grabbed onto his free hand and led him silently to the center of the room, where people of all types had gathered to dance. The music was played by city elves that night, and although it was different from Dalish songs, they were no less remarkable. They plucked their lutes and pipped on their pipes with a passion that Revas could appreciate. Even if he didn’t like to dance, at least he could enjoy the music.

The song they joined in on was not too slow, but not too quick either. They stomped their feet in time with the drums, and while Revas rocked Heliwr gently, Elain circled around them, her hips hitting each beat and her arms raised in adulation.

“I wanted to talk to you away from prying ears,” she breathed into his ear on her rotation, before pivoting back on one foot, then forward again. “This seemed the best way.”

“So you didn’t want to dance?” he teased her. 

“I always want to dance,” she grinned. “Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes.”

“And what if I don’t want to talk? What if I just want to enjoy the show?” he eyed her as she rocked her hips and moved her arms like water. 

Her eyes went half-lidded and she leaned near him before arching her back backwards, then pulling herself up again, “Why not both?”

The music began to slow again, her movements along with it, and Revas couldn’t help but feel a familiarity with the scene. There was an ache in his chest for it, a hurt still not fully healed, even if they were trying to close that wound. It would take time, he knew, but at least they knew where they stood. There were no more illusions about what they wanted.

Revas wrapped his free arm around Elain’s waist and pulled her close to him, swaying with both her and Heliwr in his arms now. He dipped his head down and kissed her nose, then her cheek, then her mouth. Softly, tenderly, with all the devotion he still felt fresh in his mind.

“So talk to me, Peach. Tell me everything.”

She sighed and closed her eyes, “Well, now you’ve made it difficult. How am I supposed to discuss the state of affairs with you being so romantic?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he whispered into her mouth. “Maybe we should just retire for the night and pretend none of this is happening.”

“Mmm, you always know how to tempt me,” the moan she rewarded him with was as beautiful and entrancing as the music. 

He kissed her full mouth this time, making her catch her breath in her throat, and it send an electric thrill through him. When he pulled away, she looked at him through those heavily-lidded eyes, and whatever determination he had seen earlier had given way to the tenderness he heaped upon her. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about the deal you made with the dwarf?” he took the initiative to start the discussion, but on his terms. When the words left his mouth, he laid another kiss upon hers. There would be no dancing around the politics and playing those kinds of games tonight. Her vulnerability was still too precious to see disappear so soon. 

“There was no time,” she rasped out, her hips still moving in time with the music’s beats, inflaming him as they did. “We needed to talk about everything else first. And then Llyn…”

He silenced her with another kiss, “I know.”

“I had every intention to tell you, really I did,” she explained. “I don’t want to hide things from you anymore.”

That pang of guilt came back again, this time stronger. Revas nearly winced at it, but managed to refrain and use his fingers to draw circles around the small of her back instead, “I believe you, Elain.”

“Just like that?” she asked in disbelief, laying her head on his chest next to Heliwr. “I didn’t think you’d trust me again so soon.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, “I don’t, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt this time. Besides, there would be no reason to keep it from me. I’d only refuse if you brought it up after we got all the way back to the valley.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to tell you tonight, as soon as I got the chance. No more secrets,” she said quietly. His guilt ate him more for it, and he knew that he couldn’t keep the burden of it held inside. Revas needed to make sacrifices to make this work too. It couldn’t be all on her.

“I need to tell you something too. Yemet and I are planning on cross-training the Guard with the hunters. Getting them to intermingle and learn how to fight cohesively,” he confessed. “It’ll strengthen the clans ties to the city.”

“And Yemet’s standing as well, I’m sure,” she said coldly.

“Yeah, but more importantly, it’ll give Sal leeway with the Free Army. If the forces are well-trained, we don’t have to worry about another coup, and the partnership will only be made stronger.”

“And what do you receive from this?” she asked.

He shrugged, “Access to information from the city. More power to my voice in Council. A way to rein you back in if you reach too far.”

“Ah, and there it is,” she saw through the ruse and touched a finger to the tip of his nose. “Yemet is worried about me coming to claim the city? Or is Sal worried I may try to eliminate Wycome as competition? Or perhaps you’re concerned I may try to undermine your position and use the hunters as my own soldiers of fortune?”

He kept quiet, and instead, just smiled.

She returned the smile and started to laugh, “Your lips are sealed, I see! I would be lying if I said I have not already considered all the ways to solidify my power and gain even more from this surprising turn of events. But if you will divulge no more, then neither will I. We shall just have to be adversaries in this.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, quieting her laugh and making her sigh. If the entire room watched, he did not care. The weight of the guilt was lifted already, and resolved with a laugh and a kiss. It all felt so new, so wonderful, but when he pulled his mouth away from her, the peace that had painted her face gave way to worry.

“What’s wrong,Peach?”

She inhaled a deep breath, as if to steel herself, “There is one more thing: Coban Davri has been granted his request. I oversaw the removal of Lokka before I came.”

Revas felt his whole being stiffen at the confession, but she looked up towards him and pressed her finger to his lip.

“I know it still angers you, but you must believe me...his hours are numbered. His brother wants him dead, and it will happen not long after he crosses the boundary of the city walls. I promise you.”

“It’s still not my arrow killing him,” he remarked sharply. 

“Dead is dead, Revas. Just because it doesn’t happen in your hands, does not make it any less so,” he looked away from her, angry that she didn’t see how important this was, but she grasped his jaw and turned his head back towards her face. “You must learn to see past your prey. Look at all we’ve gained by giving up one life owed to us. Look at what we still stand to receive. I regret not telling you as soon as I knew Lokka was in our custody, but I do not regret making the trade. The price was worth it.”

“So you say,” he said through gritted teeth, “I say we _deserve_ to have our justice for everything he did!”

Elain sighed again and let her hand drop from his jaw, “Do you have any Ethinan stationed on him? Following him once he was released?”

He did not want to lie to her, so instead, he said nothing.

“Revas please…” she pleaded with him. “You must call off your hounds. We made a deal.”

“ _You_ made a deal,” he shot back, but his stomach sank at the sad countenance her face took on.

“Everything depends on this. If you sabotage it now, we will be back to where we started. Sal and the elves here would be diminished before they ever truly got a chance to show the world what they were capable of.”

He clenched his jaw in anger. She couldn’t see past the politics of the situation, and into the people who suffered because of one dwarf. Scouts killed or worse--captured and taken to Tevinter in chains, doomed to spend the rest of their days in servitude. Death would’ve been better, and had Revas known what their fate would bring, he would’ve slit their throats himself. 

But she was right as well. The city was going to depend on Davri’s house, and if he fucked it up before they got a chance to prove themselves, it would all be on his shoulders. His revenge for the fate of the city. 

Revas sighed. A year ago, it’d be an easy decision. Blood spent for blood spilled, and the Goddess would be sated. More importantly, _he_ would be sated as well. But he wasn’t the same man he was a year ago. More lives than his own depended on him, and he couldn’t pretend to be the reckless Shem’assan anymore. He had to swallow his pride...at least this time.

“Fine,” he relented. “I’ll retract the order. But I’m doing this for Sal and Yemet, not for your deal. I could give a shit about what some merchant thinks.”

“I know. And thank you,” she replied softly. The song was coming to a close, but they still swayed together, lost to the rest of the world in the moment. “This is going to be a common occurrence, isn’t it? You and I bumping heads over the importance of matters, clashing over ideas about where to lead the clan…”

She nestled her head in his the crook of his neck and sighed, “And it will ruin all those romantic moments between us, won’t it?”

“I don’t know,” he felt colder for their tenderness giving way so suddenly to bitterness, and all the emptier for it. He missed the days when it was easier.

“I’d hate for it to happen. It all felt so brand new again, and then to see it whittled away so quickly...it hurts my heart,” she spoke barely above a whisper. 

He lifted his free hand up from her waist and settled it on her jaw, stroking the outline of her vallaslin on her cheek with his thumb, “If we want to hold this together, we’re going to have to learn to compromise.”

She nodded, “We need to stop interrupting the moments of peace we have together with matters such as these. Any breath of release we can get is a blessing, and now that our work has shifted, it will be even more important.”

“So we keep our work out there,” he pointed his fingers away from them, “and we keep our moments together here, between us. No talk about deals or trade or Councils or scions...just you and me.”

“I’d like that,” she gave him a smile, and it soothed his anger into a dull ache. “Just us.”

They danced together more, though the music had changed many times. It was important they took to heart their plans, their goals, their future, and even more so, that they made room for each other, and this may be the last night they would be able to do so for some time. Revas gave into the tenderness once more, and he did not regret it.

“Heliwr has my hair,” she whispered to him after awhile. “When did he start doing that?”

He looked down to see their son’s sleeping visage, and one little hand curled around a lock of his mother’s hair, “It’s a new trick. He likes to grab my ear when I’m close enough too.”

Revas tried to pry her hair free from his tiny iron grip, but in doing so, only disturbed his sleep. They both sighed when he started to wail at his slumber being interrupted, great piercing cries that filled the hall. 

“He’s probably hungry,” he said. “I’ll take him to Nellia.”

“Thank you for the dance,” Elain showed her thankfulness by giving him one more kiss, soft and warm on his lips, then laid one on Heliwr’s red cheek. “I’m going to start preparing for our departure. The Keeper will want to leave in the next few days. We must be back in Autini in time to meet with the Diceni hunters escorting Llyn’s body.”

The grim reminder brought Revas back to reality, “Yeah. Guess I’ll have to oversee my first funeral rite too. I doubt Den will want to do it.” He looked down at his feet. “Never imagined it would be Llyn I’d have to bury first.”

“It should never have happened. I’m sorry,” she said sadly, before turning to walk away. 

She left him alone with their crying child and the aching from the loss of his friend, but stopped a few feet away and looked over her shoulder.

“Don’t forget the hounds, Walord.” 

He watched the back of her head as she floated off to her next task, seemingly unaffected by everything they had shared only a moment ago. It would take a long time before Revas could separate himself from the work like she could, and so seamlessly, but he was willing work on it for her. For them. For the future they were building for their child and for their clan. Llyn was lost, but that was still within his protection.

That, at least, was worth the price that had been paid.

\---

Elain was not unfamiliar with chaos. 

In her years of wearing the Mantle, she had seen many a situation in which the weaker were taken advantage of by the stronger in unscrupulous ways, leaving clans in mayhem from the aftershocks. Slavers, raiders, even templars on the hunt for ‘ _apostates_ ’ after some Chantry mother in a Free Marcher city wanted to make a name for herself for bringing down heathens...they all sowed chaos among her people, and it was the Maiden’s duty to ensure that chaos was defeated at the end of her arrow. Or, more preferably, at the tip of her tongue. She was not adverse to either, when the situation called.

But the maelstrom of Wycome was something that shook her very soul. It had torn her down, whipped her to and fro, tossed her to the furthest corners of the recesses of her minds, then pulled her back into its singularity, where she was compressed and shaped, until finally, she emerged as something new. 

Heliwr had been born in this tumultuous time, but in a way, so had Elain. Born of the chaos and corruption, cleansed and baptized, her eyes pressed onto the horizon with joy to see that hopeful dawn approaching. In darkness, she found light. She rediscovered her love. She realized that she could be herself, and that in doing so, she could not deny the powerful hunger that roared inside of her soul. She was Elain, and then she was more, and despite the pain that this city had brought her, it had renewed her as well. 

She passed down the emptied halls of the guest suites, her boots making a hollow thump on the marble floors. Everyone else was still in the Great Hall celebrating the triumph, but chaos did not take a moment to breathe. It still moved her forward, steeled her, make her all the more determined to face the changing winds. And those winds would change, most certainly.

The portraits of the former nobility of the city that still hung in these halls told the tale of change silently. Human face after human face, blood as blue as the depths of the Amaranthine, and just as briney and thin. Their judgmental eyes, their aristocratic noses, their unimpressed smirks and necks bedecked in all manner of jewellry and baubles...this is what Wycome had been for a very long time.

But that change would see new faces hung in this hallowed halls. Faces with ears that pointed towards the heavens. Faces scarred and broken, but not defeated. Faces who wore their struggles and triumphs as clear as the day, and celebrated both in equal measure. The faces of the people she knew. Her people. 

Elain did a light-hearted spin at the thought, unable to contain the excitement inside of her. Her people would rule the city, her people would define the trade routes, her people would build roads and alliances and-and...and she would be at the center of it all. Ambassador of the North. Maiden of the Hunt. Confidant to the Inquisitor and Savior of Wycome. She held it all!

She stopped her delighted dance and took a deep breath. It was so many things to process at once, but she must be careful. Excitement was expected, but growing complacent --even secure-- in this situation would be a fatal flaw. Llyn’s fate was a harsh reminder of that.

With more responsibility and more work on her shoulders, all the more people would want to see her fail. Her Mantle could still be ripped away, her work discredited, a wedge driven between her and her Sar’een; and that was just a start. There were so many possibilities for underhanded machinations for political gain, and even more possibilities for revenge. 

The Maiden must tread carefully now, for this path was full of obstacles that would lead her astray. She must not lose sight of her promises already made and the future she strived to reach. Revas was not there to catch her if she fell anymore, and now, he would be one of the many things that stood in her way to absolute power.

Thankfully, he stood in the way of her absolute corruption as well. Part of her rebirth was understanding that she was not infallible, and the world was not working against her. There were things that stood in her way for a reason, and just as a child must learn to walk by taking wobbling first steps, Elain must learn the art of compromise in all its forms. 

Elain walked into the suite she had called her home for many weeks, the great blue doors as familiar as the hanging on her yurt by now, but far less welcoming. She would not miss their foreboding size or the emptiness of the room. She would not miss the luxurious silk bed coverings or the gilded furniture and bric-a-brac. The marble floors would be a dream to be rid of and the pointless pearl embellishments that covered nearly every surface in the palace would never trouble her again. 

Among the faded decadence and the signs of her and Revas living there, something caught her eye. The doors to the balcony looking over the city and out to the sea had been swung open, and a figure sat in the doorway in a rolling chair. 

“Bida, is that you? What are you doing here?” she asked as she grabbed one of her tunics that had been tossed over the back of a chair. “Tired of the festivities already?”

Bida did not answer, and rather, stared silently at the horizon. 

“I’m sure the resident elves here would love to have you at the celebration tonight. In all the weeks I’ve spent here, none of them tired of hearing tales of your Dire Hunt of Harpin Ice-Veins,” Elain threw the tunic into her open chest at the end of the bed and picked up two strands of bone beads she left on a plush cushion.

Still, her mentor ignored her entirely, content to simply sit and watch the sea. Elain walked towards her, looking out over the balcony herself, and paused at the sight of the sun setting on the Amaranthine, lighting the waters with a purple glow. It was picturesque and deathly still, as if Mythal Herself had laid a soft blanket on Her child and calmed the sweet sea into slumber. Bida’s grandest adventure ended on that sea, and Elain could understand why she would want to say goodbye.

A sudden realization struck her at the thought though, making her breath catch in her lungs, stopping her heart. She dropped the beads from her hand, where they fell to the floor with the gentlest _plink plink plink_.

“Hahren?” She set her hand on Bida’s shoulder, but it was already as cold and stiff as stone. It was too late.

There was nothing of Old Bida left in this body.

Elain sank to the floor next to the vessel that held the Old Maiden, the shock of it stopping any tears that wanted to come and making her heart feel as if it was shattering in her chest. She gripped her cloak close to her, as if could protect her from the pain that began to overwhelm her, and with a desperate desire for relief from the grief that crashed inside her soul, she laid her head down gently on her mentor’s lap. 

“ _Oh, mamae_.”

With one hand, the Creators give blessings upon blessings to Their Favored People. And with another…They dash it all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Ghilana Elvhen, Keeper, irrasal vir ghila_ : Guide the People, Keeper, wherever we may go
> 
>  
> 
> **\----------------------------------------------------------**
> 
>  
> 
> So. This is important to me. More important than I can properly convey in words, but I'm going to try.
> 
> I created Elain around December of 2014 as a way of exploring my grief over the sudden death of my father 10 months prior. As time went by and I met my good friend drathe,  
> more elements were added to her story, but her being a vessel for grief never really stopped. In fact, it only grew more profound.
> 
> All the relationships I explore with Elain and secondary characters are parts of my relationship with my father. Parts of him are in almost every one, just as much as parts of me are. Old Bida has more of him than any other character before though, and because of that, her fate was decided since the beginning of Birthright. I always intended her to die, it was just where in the narrative it would make sense, where it would be most impactful, and where she would have had enough development and participation where it would MEAN something. The end of the Wycome arc was the right fit.
> 
> It was the right fit because Elain herself had gone through such a transformation. It was like the title implies... a rebirth. She's still herself, but she's shed the thing holding her back, and is looking at the future with new eyes. It's an optimistic time, one full of joy and possibilities, and I knew. I knew then that this was when Bida would be satisfied with what she had done and finally leave the rebuilding to the young, just as she encouraged everyone else to do. 
> 
> But because Bida was so much more like my father than any of the other secondary characters, it was difficult. Painful. Knowing what Elain will endure is also hard to cope with,  
> and part of me wanted to throw it all out and just let her live forever. Wouldn't that be such a Bida thing to do? Just live forever?
> 
> A week before my dad died, he told me he wouldn't be around forever. I told him, "Stop, you're too ornery to die." I truly believed it with all my heart. People like him, like Old Bida...they seem immortal in that way. That there is just a spark in them that never leaves, and it will somehow preserve them through everything. It makes them all the more vulnerable though, and it makes their loved ones all the more devastated when that spark goes out.
> 
> So no, I could not just let Bida live and fade away from the narrative. It's not part of the story I wanted to tell. The story that this will always come back around to...a story of grief, growth, and learning. My story. 
> 
> Elain sits down on the floor and lays her head on Bida and says "Oh, mamae." I wrote it that way because when my dad died, I sat on the bed next to him, laid my head on his body, and said "Oh daddy." We did it because it's always so hard to understand how that spark leaves. How something so resolute, so stubborn, can be taken away so quickly. I had no answers when I started writing this, but now...it's more clear.
> 
> And so here it is. Elain's grief. My grief. Finally overlapping and closing off this huge undertaking I pressed myself to accomplish. Bida would be proud of everything she's done and how far she's come. I hope my dad would feel the same about me.


	60. Earn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan returns to Autini; Revas finds his purpose; Elain says goodbye; Sar'een prepares to return to Skyhold

It was raining when Clan Lavellan returned to the Autini Valley. Loud, bellowing, thunder-filled the air and dark storm clouds poured their wrath down on the wayward children returned home. The Minanter rose and flooded their old camp grounds, and new, higher ground had to be found to wait out the early summer storms. 

The more superstitious members of the clan whispered of the unrelenting rains being the Creators mourning the loss of the Old Maiden. Others spoke of signs of the Creators’ disapproval of the future of the clan. Most tried to quietly wait it all out in their yurts, warmed by their hearths and the very new concept of ‘ _home_ ’. The fearful always seek the familiar to make them feel safer when sailing across troubled waters.

Revas merely stood in the downpour in the late hours of the evening after their arrival, breathing in the Wild, remembering the forces of the world that were not controlled by politics and shemlen bureaucracy. There was freedom in the rain beating on his face, soaking his armor through, creating a tangled mess of his hair. Freedom in the taste of the drops on his lips, the ozone smell of the wind, the loud cracks of lightning that lit up the towering Vimmarks. Here, he was the hunter again, the master of his domain, the force as strong as the Wild surrounding him. His bow was king here, his arrow queen, and together, they ruled in ruthless harmony over the beasts and supernatural alike.

He assigned himself the first guard rotation that night just to feel the ground beneath his feet again, to hear the sounds of the animals who ruled the night. When his shift was over, he ran unobstructed through the glades on the very edge of their territories, chasing a mother deer and her doe, the rain washing away the sweat on his brow. It could not extinguish the fire in his heart, however. 

Revas ran and ran and ran until the sun rose and until his lungs ached, and then ran some more. It made it all seem real once more, the here and the now of his hunting grounds, and Wycome was merely a faraway dream. There was no Warlord here, no Banal’ras, no man who bore the responsibility of all the lives under his command. There was only Revas, and the mud on his boots, and the bow in his hand.

Reality set in when Llyn’s body arrived later that morning. The Ethinan called on him instead of Den to receive him, and he wished for nothing more than to run and run and never look back. Instead, he greeted the Diceni deliverers, offered them food and warmth, as was the custom, and accepted the hand off of the corpse of his old friend.

They had wrapped him tightly in linen, folding in frost runes enchanted by Paeris’ First in order to preserve the body. Revas didn’t know if the runes weren’t enough, or if the First just wasn’t very talented, but they certainly hadn’t helped as much as he would’ve hoped. Hunters were used to the scent of rotting meat, but there was something far more visceral about knowing that the decomposing corpse underneath that cloth was the friend he had grown up with.

 _This isn’t how I want to remember him_ , Sorn had confessed to Revas after he had dismissed the Diceni couriers. He wanted to agree, to let out all his rage and pain and shunt it off onto something more deserving, but there was duty now that came with his title, and he had to be the Warlord instead of the tempestuous agent of Death he had always embraced. 

Part of that was accepting that he could not save everyone, as much as it hurt. Despite all his best efforts, he simply could _not_. 

Another part of it was not running.

So Revas stood resolute instead. He requested the final rite needed to truly ascend into his position, his calling, and instead of breaking free and taking up the Wild, he waited patiently in the continuous rain outside his new Keeper’s yurt. It looked familiar, with its elaborate beading depicting the marriage of Elgar’nan and Mythal, but he knew it would not be Deshanna behind the hanging when it opened. Nothing was truly familiar anymore. It was a new world. 

When Sar’een finally pulled back the hanging, she and Merrill both stared back at him with solemn faces.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Keeper,” he replied humbly, though he did not feel humble. To him, Sar’een would always be _Dor’len_ , and though it may have only been to make himself more secure, he couldn’t help but feel some humor in her trying to put on the airs of authority.

“Remove your boots,” she ordered him briskly. 

He did so, with some trouble due to all the rain, and threw them inside her yurt haphazardly. Sar’een pursed her lips at his disregard but didn’t open her mouth to chastise him. Revas smirked at that. Still _Dor’len_.

Merrill picked up a golden bowl from a nearby stool, and the smell of blood caught in his nostrils. Sar’een drew a linen cloth from her belt and dipped it into the bowl, soaking it in the blood of a hare. After wringing it out, she bent over at the waist and picked up his left foot, running the cloth across the sole. She did the same for his right, consecrating both, and at last, he was allowed to enter the sanctuary she had created in her yurt.

He stepped inside and out of the rain, and beyond Sar’een and Merrill, saw an old cedar bench sitting next to a table with a small chest atop it. Inside, jars of ink used to create vallaslin sat nestled in velvet, and long, sharp bone pins stuck out of a cork holder. Revas felt a sudden pang of fear as he remembered receiving his first vallaslin, the bows that marked his face in Andruil’s favor. They had hurt, but he had been determined, almost to the point of recklessness. He was trying to not be that reckless anymore. 

Still, he had endured that marking, and then, much worse. The scars on his back would forever remind him of that.

“Have you meditated on what you want to represent in your role as Warlord?” Sar’een asked him. He nodded his head, before pulling his shirt up and over it.

“Sure,” he lied as he threw the shirt towards his muddy boots. Calling it _meditation_ was a reach. He thought about it, but there was no spiritual connection for him. “As Warlord, I want to be a bear for my people.”

Merrill snorted and Sar’een’s serious face seemed to break. “A bear?”

“Yeah, a bear,” he said with irritation before laying on his back on the bench. “What’s wrong with a bear?”

“Nothing,” Sar’een said innocently. “Just not as flashy as a hawk or a lion or something.”

“Or a wolf! Wolves are so mysterious and sexy, right?” Merrill giggled along. 

“Oh, very mysterious and sexy,” Sar’een agreed. “I hear all the huntresses and hunters blush at the brooding lone wolf types.”

Revas rolled his eyes, “I’m not a wolf. I’m a bear.”

“Of course you are,” she patronized him like a child. “A strong bear. A ferocious bear!”

“Grrrr!” Merril curled her claws and showed her teeth in jest.

“Are we going to do this or are you two going to keep fucking around?” he snapped at them. Revas just wanted to get this over with so he could go distract himself from the impending funeral rites.

Sar’een clicked her tongue and picked up the stool next to the entrance of the yurt, “So impatient. Very unbear-like of you.”

Merrill nodded her agreement, “Maybe a fox would be better. Oh! Or a ram! They’re always so jumpy!”

“The both of you can _fuck right off_ ,” he grumbled. It earned him snickers from the two mages, only annoying him more.

“So grumpy!” Merrill exclaimed, “That’s much more bear-like.”

“Mmhmm. Maybe it is a good fit, since you are so _unbearable_ ,” Sar’een commented gravely, and he groaned at the pun. But she then shrugged and let out a sigh. “Alright, we shouldn’t delay him any longer. I’m sure he is very, very busy now and just wants to run through this highly sacred marking rite as quickly as possible. Revas is so important, after all.”

Revas closed his eyes and groaned again, this time louder, “I don’t need the sarcasm.”

“And I don’t need to perform this rite on someone I think is a violent bully trying to pretend to be reformed so he can continue his ways unhindered as Warlord,” she said smoothly. “But we all endure inconveniences for the sake of the greater good.”

“Go ahead and refuse, then,” he tucked his hands behind his head as he called her bluff. “See what happens.”

At that, Sar’een tightened her lips and went quiet, and Merrill cleared her throat nervously. He couldn’t help but smirk.

She wasn’t dumb. Not performing the rite and accepting him as Warlord would leave the hunters without a leader that they were unified under, and as much as Elain would giddily accept the responsibility, many of the hunters were still wary of following her orders alone. Even when he was Banal’ras, he was the one speaking for her and to her on behalf of the Ethinan. Her years of favoring delegation rather than direct intervention would now bite Sar’een in the ass. 

The new Keeper was stuck with him, whether she liked it or not, and they both knew it.

“Sit up,” she demanded him. He did so willingly, nearly smugly, seeing as she had no smart remarks to throw at him now. 

She glared at him before turning her attention to her ritual implements, pulling a bone pin from the cork inside her chest. With a wave of her hand, she motioned Merrill closer to her, and when she did, Sar’een dipped the bone pin the bowl of hare’s blood Merrill still held in her hands.

When she lifted the pin, she held it over the vials of ink, letting little droplets of the blood fall inside. She did it with all five vials there, then carefully placed the bone pin in a small vessel of water with elfroot leaves floating inside, making sure it would be clean for when she would prick his skin with it. Then, she took a step away from her increments.

“We purify the Blood of Her Children, so that the Mother of Hares is satisfied with Their sacrifice,” she intoned as she raised a hand over the ink vials. They started to glow under the magic that crept off her fingertips, and an ethereal flame appeared on the surface of the ink. It was unlike the flames he was used to. Those had heat, warmth, familiarity. This permeated blue and was as cold as winter. It made his body shiver and his teeth ache. “Blessed be Her Name.”

“ _Blessed be Her Name_ ,” he responded instinctively, fearfully even, and Merrill joined in with his blessing.

Sar’een pulled back the magic in her hand, and the flames died down. It left a strange, ichorous taste in his mouth and made him wish he would’ve asked Twig or Sorn to join him in this. Revas hated the after effects of magic, the strange sensations it invoked, and the mere fact that it was something he had no control over. Might’ve been easier to deal with if he wasn’t alone with mages.

But Sar’een wasn’t affected by it at all, of course, and continued her ritual. She stuck her thumb in the bowl that Merrill held, then brought it to his forehead, where she made a clean swipe across it. The blood was still warm, and it dripped down his temple and onto the joint where his jaw met his ear.

“Andruil asks for Blood and honors Blood in turn; She marks Her Will into the flesh, and Her Children must bare Her Will with pride,” her voice was monotone and almost chant-like. “Do you submit to writing your deeds on your body in the name of the Lady of the Hunt?”

“I do.”

Sar’een picked up another bone pin and brought it to his forehead. With a quick thrust, she broke the skin in the center of where she had anointed him and waited patiently for a drop of his own blood to be drawn. When she deemed it enough, she pressed her lips against the droplet in a gentle kiss, and the magic she conjured there felt like a sharp jolt. He winced at it, but she pulled away quickly, and it was over before he could change his mind and run back into the rain.

“You are sanctified. May Her Will be done,” she informed him, and he nodded, then laid back down on the bench prepared for him. 

Merrill handed her a piece of linen dampened in a copper basin near the untouched cot at the corner of the yurt, and Sar’een wiped away the blood on her face. While she did so, Merrill took another piece of linen from the basin and cleaned his neck and shoulders. The pungent smell of an elfroot poultice mixed in with the water filled his nostrils and made his nose twitch. After she finished, she gently dried the areas she had cleansed and nodded to Sar’een. The Keeper acknowledged the motion, then opened up a small leather pouch on her belt and pulled out a piece of drafting charcoal with a tip as sharp and pointed as a pin.

“Let’s get started.”

With a practiced precision, Sar’een took the piece of drafting charcoal and quickly sketched the outlines of the vallaslin he would receive. He did not watch what she was doing, since he already knew. He had watched his father receive commendation vallaslin when he was very young, and remembered clearly the day he received his acceptance into adulthood on his face, so that was nothing new.

A Warlord’s vallaslin was different though. It was more significant, in a way. It showed a sign of authority, but also displayed how the Warlord viewed their role among their subordinates. Boars are worn on the gut, for the Warlord that depends on his instinct and tenacity. Hawks were written on the temples and around the ears, for the Warlord that depends on perspective. Wolves were written on the calves, for the Warlord that ran with their pack as one of them, instead of over them. 

But bears...bears reared their heads on either side of the throat, for the Warlord who was provoked at their enemy’s own risk. Like a bear, that Warlord would tear the neck of whoever dared disturb their peaceful den. Something about that resonated in Revas, making it an easy choice. Every other option seemed lackluster or wrong when compared. 

Sar’een drafted the lines in efficient silence, and after a few moments, cleared her throat. 

“The Maiden has petitioned for you to receive commendation for the events in Wycome as well. One for your breaching of the Nacre Palace, and one for your capture of Captain Donovan,” she explained to him. “I have no objections.”

Sar’een set her drafting charcoal on his right forearm, “Two arrows, one for each commendation, as is tradition, and a band around your wrist to represent the waters of Wycome.”

She quickly sketched the markings there as well, without waiting for him to respond, and it was over with quickly. He worried about the next step though...not for the inevitable pain, but for what else came with it. 

Luckily, she did not hesitate beforehand, so he did not have time to dwell on it. She tossed her charcoal aside and grabbed her bone pin, dipped it in the first vial of ink, and whispered words into it. With the words, the pin began to glow with a thrumming, resonating magic, and as he watched on nervously, she set the pin’s sharp tip against his skin and began her work. 

The magic helped her hand move far more quickly with far more precision, making it easier to embed the ink. The ichorous smell did not return, but his teeth still clenched in his mouth at the sensation of that subtle vibration against his body. The pain was tolerable, but this otherworldly touch made his bones want to jump out of his body. 

“Is Llyn ready for burial?” she asked him innocuously as she went about her work. She started at the base of his neck and swiftly made her way upwards with precise, firm punctures underneath his skin.

“Yeah, and we need to do it soon,” he responded tensely. 

She didn’t lift her eyes off her work, “It must wait until the end of the week. Many local clans and alienage elves in the Free Marches are making the trek to see Bida off.”

“We can’t wait for Bida to get sent off,” he nearly flinched when she moved to his neck. “He’s...he’s rotting away.”

“If we don’t wait for Bida, no one but you and a few hunters will attend,” she said mildly, and it irritated him she was so calm about it. “The move back to Autini and all the work to be done will distract them from their duties. They can’t ignore the funeral rites of a scion, though.”

“So either no one cares about him and he gets buried alone, or no one cares about him and he gets quietly carried behind a scion that everyone is mourning for. Fucking _beautiful_ ,” he snapped at her. 

She stopped her work and looked up, “I didn’t ask for this to happen, Revas. Trust me when I say that I’m not happy about it either.”

“Yet you’ll still let his body putrefy and get eaten by scavengers before he can go in the ground,” he pointed out sharply. “Don’t tell me you give a shit.”

She looked back downwards and pushed the pin back into his neck, “Merrill?”

The other mage perked up at her name, “Yes?”

“Please go to where Llewellyn’s body is being kept. It’s in the same yurt as Bida’s,” Sar’een requested. “Once you’re there, see what you can do about preserving him. I placed a mana seal over Bida to help her, but Llyn only had frost runes wrapped in his linen.”

“Oh my,” her eyes widened. “I will do what I can, but my preservation magic is a bit rusty.”

Sar’een smiled at her, but did not look up, “Whatever you can do is appreciated, falon.”

Merrill gave her a weak nod and a little bow, then exited the yurt without another word. Sar’een did not stop her work, but a new tension hung in the air between them that seemed almost as palpable as her magic. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Thanks,” he said to try to break the tension making its home in the cramped space they shared now. 

“Your hands aren’t free of the blood shed in Llyn’s death, and I am not a sack for you to punch your guilt into over it,” she answered coldly, the pricks of the bone pins digging in deeper now. “Don’t speak to me like that again, or you will regret it, Warlord.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I have to take care of him now since…” he stopped himself. “Forget it. Whatever you think of me, he deserved better.”

She moved back down to where his shoulder and neck met, filling in the thin lines of the stylized bear, “Do you remember how I got this scar on my face?”

He winced at her words and at the sting of the magic mixing with his blood and flesh, but he would not deny it. Revas remembered how she got it vividly, “Yeah. You kept fucking around with my open wounds after my initiation as Banal’ras, instead of helping like you were supposed to. I threw a lantern, and it bounced and hit your face.”

“Yes, though I think of the story much differently,” she refilled her bone pin with ink, then continued. “In my memory, I see me trying to learn how to do my job as First to the Keeper, and being ridiculed and punished for not being perfect. I did nothing different than what Paeris did when administering your wounds, but I was the one that received the brunt of your wrath. You saw a fumbling little girl and took advantage of it, hurting me because you could. Pushing your pain off on me because you could. Scapegoating me for your mistakes, your regrets...just because you could.”

She stood up suddenly, then moved her stool and her table full of increments to the other side of him, then sat down again and began her work there. 

“You still think you can intimidate me into doing what you want. Still think that I can be punched down on so you don’t have to confront your faults,” she went on as she drew more magic in her hands, moving even faster on this side. It hurt much more this time, but Revas couldn’t show the pain. He bit his tongue instead. “You still think I’m the simpering child who will cower when you raise your hand, or your voice, all because you can’t face your own mistakes. You are wrong, Revas, and you will learn very quickly.”

The pin went deeper and deeper, and then faster and faster.

“‘ _Whatever you think of me_ ’, you say, as if I am not justified. As if I have no right to still taste the ashes of disillusion on my tongue,” her voice went very low, and she paused her work to look him in the eye.

“To tell the truth...I think nothing of you at all. The moment you left Haven all those months ago was the last time you graced my mind, and when I leave to return south again, I will forget your existence entirely. You are only receiving my blessing as Warlord because the hunters will it, and because the Maiden still holds sway over you, however little that may be. But if it were up to me and me alone? I would have you relegated to patrol duties for the rest of your days, and then I would live in blissful ignorance of what goes on in your cruel little mind.”

Sar’een set her chin down again to focus on her work, conjuring more magic in these moments than she had the entire time. His muscles tensed in reflex at the pain, and despite himself, he started breathing heavily through his nose to control it. 

“So think about that before opening your mouth against me again. I am not cruel like you, but I’m afraid I would find too much pleasure from striking you down like the beast you are.”

“I don’t like threats, Keeper,” he said through clenched teeth as the pins dug all the way to his collar bone. 

“Threats? Threats are for diplomats and nobles who need prodding like halla to go in the direction you want them to,” she shook her head. “No, not a threat. _A promise_.”

Revas wanted to say more, but the pain was intense, far more than it should be, and he realized she was using more magic than necessary to rush through the work. She didn’t want to do this. He didn’t either, but they were both stuck in a position of necessity. He was Warlord against her wishes, and she had power over him, against his all his hopes. They were going through the motions and having a battle of wills to see who would prevail in dominance. 

And Revas always did hate to lose.

He waited for another hour in silence until she was finished with the vallaslin and anointed him with soothing ointments after. Her magic was still there, but this time it felt cool and pleasant, not sharp and painful. It didn’t ease his anxiety over it though, and his heart beat heavily in his chest.

“Do you want to know why I chose a bear?” he asked her as he watched her hands massaged in the ointment over the commendations on his forearm.

“Not really,” she answered absently. 

“You made a promise to me; it’s only fair that you understand mine.”

Sar’een arched her eyebrow at the remark, “Fine. I’ll listen.”

Even as she said so, she stood up from her stool and started packing away her implements. Bone pins in the vial of water with the floating leaves, cork stoppers back on the ink, and her drafting charcoal back into the spot at her belt. He sat up on the bench and stretched his arms up over his head. The pull of his skin sent an aching pain, but it was much better without the magic.

“You’re a Keeper, so you know all abouts bears,” he started. “Favored of Dirthamen. Slumbering beasts. Dangerous when crossed.”

“Yes,” she said as she shut the chest that held the ink. 

“They’re also protectors in every role they assume. They protected secrets for Dirthamen. They hibernate with their families close beneath them, so they can keep them safe,” he explained. “And they maul anyone who threatens their den. No hesitation. No debate. No mercy. Just tearing out the throat of the threat.”

“Why am I not surprised you’re drawn to the idea of mauling your enemies?” 

He shook his head and reached down towards the floor to pick up his shirt, “Not worried about my enemies; I haven’t met anyone who could best me yet. Except myself.”

Revas pulled his shirt over his head and bent over to put his boots back on.

“And that’s where I get fucked up. I run into a situation without thinking it through, without working out the consequences. And before? Worked for me just fine. I was a Shadow, and Shadows don’t need to think about other people. They’re agents of Death, projected into this world, but never quite measuring up to the full potential of a person. How can they? They’re just Shadows. They’re dark, foreboding, but in the right light, you can see right through them.”

Sar’een turned her head and looked at him, her mouth set in a slight frown. He wasn’t deterred though. He needed to get it out. Revas wasn’t ready to lose this yet.

“And then Llyn happened,” he sighed as he slipped his boot over his foot. “I was the Banal’ras when we sent him out, thinking like a Shadow thinks. Hide until it all blows over, then slink back into darkness. But I wasn’t a Shadow anymore when his death got back to me. I was surprised how quick it all happened. How quick I was ready to assume that role as Shadow again. Even when I got back here in the valley, it would’ve been easier to do that than face that…”

She sat down on the stool now, staring at him intently.

“Easier than facing that Llyn’s death was on my head too, and that if I had been Warlord sooner, it wouldn’t have happened,” he confessed. “I couldn’t save him, even though I cry out to the Creators with my entire soul in hopes that they hear my prayers of making it not so. But we can’t depend on the Gods to fix our mistakes. They never really answer our prayers, do they?”

Sar’een didn’t answer.

“So I’m a bear, because I will let my soul be damned to the Void before I let anyone throw another hunter’s life away for no reason. I’m a bear, because I won’t let anyone use the people who have kept this clan alive as fodder. I’m a bear, because I’ll defend my den from anyone who will hurt them...including myself.”

“Nice words, but I didn’t hear the promise you said you were making,” she pressed him once he finished. 

Revas stood up and looked down on her on her stool, her Keeper’s robes brushing against the floor. He’d have to answer her, to her, for her...she was part of the den too.

“The promise is to protect the den with my life while its Keeper is away...and when she’s here. To protect them from people like Paeris and Elain who want to erode everything away until there’s nothing left to fight for. To protect them from everything this world is going to throw at us, because you and I both know how much they’re going to like armed elves having a say in Marcher politics. I promise to maul any enemy that would threaten our peace, and cherish every life under my command. For the clan. For Llyn.”

“Fair enough,” she replied softly. “And what about you? What do you want out of your protection?”

“I’m done doing things just for myself. Too many people have been hurt because of it.”

Revas turned around and left the yurt, newly marked and wearing the bear on his body without regrets. He took no pride in it, and took even less joy in his ascension. There was nothing to protect him now. No Maiden to stand behind, no Mantle to hide inside of. 

Revas was Warlord, and he had chosen his role decisively. Anything he did now bore the burden of responsibility, and his decisions would affect everyone in Autini and beyond now. He buried his need to run free in the Wild in absolution, and instead, headed towards the Council pavilion with new determination.

And although he couldn’t know, back in the sanctified yurt he had just left, the Keeper folded her hands on her lap and smiled to herself.

\---

The Autini Valley found more travelers in its untameable Wild than it had ever before on the day of Maiden Bida’s funeral procession. Clans Silure and Istimaethorial both made their presence known, and holdovers from the Diceni stayed to see the Old Maiden off as well. That was to be expected, however. Bida had served as an active Maiden for fifty years, and the Dalish knew her as a pillar of strength among them.

What was strange was the influx of city elves who requested to join the procession. Not just from Wycome, either. Hercinia’s residents came in droves. As did Ansburg’s and Markham’s. Even some from Wildervale made themselves known, and traveled day and night to arrive in time. There was a general air of excitement among them, as if they were viewing some spectacle, some circus, instead of a hallowed mourning rite. 

The Keeper welcomed them all the same, and she stood politely as she heard all the condolences they offered, and then regaled her with grand stories of the Old Maiden and her hunt of Harpin Ice Veins. The stories had risen in prominence since the capture of Wycome, and one Hahren from the alienage of Ostwick described new popularity in songs sung in taverns about the Dire Hunt that occurred all those years ago.

The Free Marches had not forgotten the service Old Bida had provided them, and her legacy as a ruthless huntress and defender of vulnerable would follow her into the Beyond. There was some comfort in that, however little it mattered to those who would miss her. Elain being one of them.

She dressed for the funeral rites in her yurt, all the more cramped now that Revas and Heliwr shared it with her, and realized she only found sadness in Bida’s deeds and the obvious love so many had for her. 

It all felt so impersonal and empty to her. They didn’t know who Bida was, the real Bida, how could they possibly mourn her passing like Elain did? They saw a figure of legend who passed peacefully into the night, but to her...the pain was as deep as losing a mother. The old Maiden had groomed her, raised her up, guided her, and molded her into the woman she was today. The deep loss she suffered from her death was not something she could look back on in fondness.

Still, she tightened the leather laces of her leggings and slipped her leather jerkin over her head. It was emblazoned with the hares of the Maiden, and she paused to run her fingers over the stitching that outlined their leaping forms. Bida had commissioned all the pieces of armor in her arsenal from one of the Children of the Forge at Elain’s ascension. The Mantle was the only piece that was passed down to her. 

And there is sat now, resolute and heavy, as always, the soft rabbit fur laying peacefully still on its stand. She stared at in longing, knowing it was the last connection she had now to her mentor, and that even that may be taken away from her before long. How that thought made her heart ache more than anything else! A title passed from surrogate mother to surrogate daughter, stripped away over an antiquated oath broken. 

And yet...and yet even now she found herself questioning the commitment to her decision to let it go if the High Council judged her unfit to wear it. What right did they have to take her birthright from her? What law dictated that they should decide the Will of Andruil for Her? For was it not Andruil who spoke to her in her nightmares? Forced her to wander Her Domain every time she closed her eyes to sleep? Who would dare say she was unfit to serve the Goddess who had chosen her? 

The mere thought of being under the Lady of the Hunt’s scrutiny made Elain reconsider her mutinous thoughts. It would be stupid to invoke the ire of something she never truly understood and never tried to. Some things were best kept secret, hidden, so that others couldn’t use it against her. Madness and godliness were often hard to separate, and she did not want to put her own mind to that test.

Elain realized these thoughts for what they were: simple grief. Grief over the loss of her mentor, of her unknown future, of everything she had lost and the overwhelming responsibility she had gained. So much could go wrong, and without Bida’s voice to guide her and rise up to match her own, how could she navigate these treacherous waters? 

She grabbed the Mantle and threw it over her shoulders, and buckled it in place with the metal pins and latch on her jerkin. It was as heavy as always, and when she looked in her mirror, it seemed the fur would swallow her up. 

“Almost ready?”

She turned her head to see Revas finishing his own dressing and struggling to avoid tightening his pauldrons too much around the new commendations on his right forearm. 

“Yes,” she replied quietly before walking over to him. Elain took his arm in her hands and carefully pulled the linen wrappings in place over the raw vallaslin, then slipped his pauldron down over it. Pulling on the leather strap, she tightened it just enough to hold it in place. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked her, and she drew her hands up to the tips of the arrows in the quiver that sat at his waist. She brushed them gently, attempting to distract herself from her thoughts.

“Fine,” she lied. “And you?”

“Fine.” 

He lied too. Neither of them were fine, and neither of them were ready to express exactly how much it hurt. Saying goodbye was a difficult thing for anyone, even more so that they would have to be the ones leading everyone else in saying those goodbyes. They’d nurse their wounds silently until everyone else had expressed their mourning, and then...then maybe they could speak of how truly hurt they were. 

Until then though, there was duty.

“Are you ready for today? Do you know all the words?” she questioned him, and he nodded his head.

“Yeah. Den gave me a pep talk about it too.”

She furrowed her brow, “So that’s why you smelled of cheap wine when you returned last night. I hope this won’t become a problem with him.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the situation,” Revas assured her, “but he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Without his job, he’s falling back on the only other things that make him happy.”

“Drinks and women,” she sighed. “What does that mean for your poor mother?”

“Now you know why I never liked it.”

“It still isn’t your choice,” Elain reminded him, then sighed once more. “We should get moving. It’s time to put them to rest.”

Revas nodded, then took her hand in his, and they walked out of the yurt together. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, leaving the valley smelling of wet moss and mud, but the clouds still loomed and made everything look dark and dead. Elain gripped his hand tighter as they made their way to the other side of the campgrounds. 

When they arrived, the crowds had already gathered for the procession. Hunters stood guarding the core of the funeral caravan from the mass of people, and with a nod of Revas’ head, they allowed them through to the center. There, the Council stood over the cedar sleds that held the bodies of the departed. 

Elain’s heart felt frozen as she looked on the tightly-wrapped linen masking the old Maiden. The linen was painted with all the vallaslin Bida wore in her lifetime: Andruil’s bow on her face, several commendations on both her forearms, and then, even more on her biceps and thighs. If the body were to be turned over, Elain would also see the stylized hares that ran up and down her spine, the sign that both of them wore as Maidens. 

There were also bumps in the linen where Bida’s dressers had woven in artifacts of her life. Arrowheads and shafts, feathers, bones from her proudest kills, and perhaps wrapped in her hand...a tooth plucked from the mouth of Harpin Ice Veins. There were also wicker baskets on the sled that would carry other belongings of hers that marked her accomplishments in her life, things that wouldn’t be able to fit inside her linens. Lying among the baskets was Bida’s bow, as well, and the armor she wore as Maiden. 

A lump formed in Elain’s throat at seeing her laid out like this, and the final realization that she would never see her hahren again settled into her mind like a new child: all screaming and neediness and a demand to be addressed. Her lip quivered, but she would not she her tears here. Bida would be angry if she did. 

_A hunter was a master of their suffering._

Llyn’s body was far less intricately dressed, with fewer accomplishments to mark his short life. Only one basket lay on his sled, and only a few baubles wound into his linen. Arrowheads and bones, like Bida, but also his favorite pipe as well. The linen was more bare too, with only the vallaslin on his face and a stylized hawk’s eye on the center of his chest to mark him as the head of the Ethinan.

Even in death, the vallaslin seemed to be a burden on his withered corpse. The weight of the ink painted there made his linens stick to his chest, wetting the fragile cloth. In the moisture, the blackness of the ink ran, slithering down the sides of his ribs like mutated wings, and the solemnity of the viewing left, and instead, was replaced by a frightening specter of Death sown by those who were meant to protect.

Revas’ hand trembled in hers at the sight, and she understood in that moment the depth of the wrongs that had been done to their friend. From Paeris, from the Diceni, from Lavellan, and most of all...from them. For all his faults, Llyn did not deserve this. 

“Are you ready to begin the walk?”

Sar’een has come behind them silently and watched over their shoulders as they viewed the bodies. Her voice startled Elain. It was nearly disembodied, like a ghost, like the phantoms of Death that would haunt her for the wrongs done here. Her body gave a slight jump at it, and the need to be away from all this ate at her. 

_Let it be done, then,_ she told herself. _Let it be done so I do not have to fear the rot and decay before my eyes._

Elain nodded, and at her approval, Sar’een signaled to the hunters standing watch over the bodies. One of them pulled a ram’s horn from his belt and gave one great, solid blow. Then another. Then one more. It was a melancholy bellow that echoed through the valley, and at the signal, all those who had gathered quieted themselves and turned their eyes to the head of the procession.

Sohta gently led two hallas to the sleds, carefully attaching flax ropes to the special yokes they wore for the occasion. The yokes themselves were leather studded with the bones of hares, polished until smooth and pebble-like. Everywhere there were bones, everywhere there were signs of the consumption of Death. Because of it, Elain worried of what horrors her mind would conjure up here.

Once the sleds were secured, Elain positioned herself to the left of the halla who would pull Bida, and Revas on the right side of the one who would pull Llyn. Sar’een stood in front of them both, her Keeper’s staff in hand, her Keeper’s robes immaculately pressed, her hair slicked back. Her face wore a look of direness, of a serious sense of tradition and duty, and the illusion of the studious, somewhat shy First she once was had broken completely. That girl was simply no longer there. 

Another death to mourn, Elain had decided. Even without a grand procession, it was still someone who lived and now must be buried. But if that was the case, Revas must be buried and mourned too. And herself. They had all changed so profoundly, so thoroughly, that nothing would ever be the same between them again. No more silly secrets shared between the First and the Maiden. No more obedience to every command from Revas. No more Bida to make the Maiden realize she is being a fool.

She stiffened her lip and waited for Sar’een’s signal to move. _So be it. I will bury us all._

The procession was soon underway, with the Keeper leading the head of the caravan and the hundreds who had poured into the valley following close behind. The journey to the burial grounds was slow. They walked the river path, where the forest was less dense, but because of the sheer amount of people who had joined them, there was barely enough room to take more than two small steps at a time as as the procession wound its way through Autini’s Wild. 

What should’ve taken an hour took three, but at last, they saw the ancient redwood reaching towards the heavens that marked the graves of Lavellan’s dead. When the tree came into sight, there was some chatter from the clan members, and Elain herself wondered if Sar’een would allow the non-Dalish to join them in the hallowed grounds. 

Any worry she might have harbored was quickly vanquished when Sar’een halted the procession and turned to address Revas.

“Have some of your hunters usher the ones not marked with Vallaslin away from the procession,” she issued her order. “You will sing us into the burial grounds, and they may hear the songs, but they cannot witness the burial itself.”

Revas acknowledged the order and quickly issued his own orders to the hunters. They sprinted off with all speed, and Elain watched emptily as the clans moved forward in the procession, and the spectators stepped back to observe at their command. She was glad for it. No matter what words of kinship she was trying to share now, there were some things that only the People should see.

“Are you ready to start?” Sar’een asked them as she watched the hunters do their work diligently. Revas heaved in a deep breath at the question, but he said nothing more.

Instead, his voice rose, loud and deep all at once, and the ancient song found its way from his throat onto the wind.

_A hunter is a master of their suffering_

_And you have suffered long_

_Far away from home and hearth_

_With only your bow to touch_

_Only your arrows to kiss_

_And only the stars to accompany you_

The procession began to move again, off the river path and through the towering trees leading to the burial grounds. Shouts of dismay and gratitude both could be heard from the spectators, but it was drowned out in song as the hunters joined in with Revas’ voice.

_A hunter is a master of their suffering_

_And you have suffered deep_

_With no one to mend your wound_

_Or whisper sweet words in your ear_

_In loneliness you wallow_

_For the Gods speak to us no longer_

They grew closer to the grave site, and though the heat of summer was just starting to bloom, Elain was chilled to her bone, These grounds were where untold Lavellans were buried, and though the ground was softened by the rains, it felt sharp against the soles of her boots.

_A hunter is a master of of their suffering_

_And you have suffered pain_

_The boar that gores, with tusks_

_The bear that slashes, with claws_

_The wolf that crunches, with teeth_

_The man that destroys, with broken promises_

When the trees gave way to the clearing in which Lavellan had buried the dead for several generations, nothing could be heard but the song. Elain sang the words mindlessly, knowing them from heart, while her eyes searched all the places marking the graves of their kin. They had several burial sites in the Free Marches, but this was the largest, and the one where Revas’ father had been laid to rest. His was marked with a stone statue of Falon’din whose eyes were embedded with ivory...one she had made herself as a gift to Sohta for her loss. She saw the small figurine hanging from a branch of a tree that had grown from where he was buried, north of the great redwood in the center of the grounds.

_A hunter is a master of their suffering_

_But you suffer no more_

_Death has taken you in loving arms_

_Shut your eyes to the pain_

_Closed your mouth to the loneliness_

_Barred your ears from the lies of men_

The procession drew to a close as they approached the two graves that had been dug for their dead, side by side, so close they could nearly touch. Better to have the company of kin than the cold ground, even in death. 

_And here you will sleep, forever more_

_Away from hearth and home_

_With only your bow and arrows to touch_

_And your loneliness to keep you warm_

_Where animals will still hunt for you_

_And man will still sully his words_

As the artisans approached the bodies to place them in their graves, Elain searched out the other burials once more, and saw the dull gleam of a lute gilded in silver, now peeling and tarnished from time. It was hanging on a tree west of the redwood, further away than Bida and Llyn’s resting place, further away than Heliwr’s. This grave had been sadly neglected in recent years, with weeds growing up the trunk of the tree and threatening to tear away the once fine beauty of the lute.

There laid her mother, Meira, and as the time passed, even the memory of her had been swallowed up, just as her lute now was swallowed up.

_But you suffer no more_

_And the Gods hear you_

_They beckon you Beyond_

_But our tears are wept freely and_

_Our wails come loudly_

_For our suffering has only begun._

The song ended and it was bittersweet. Bitter in its truth, and only sweet in that it reminded Elain that Bida suffered no more. No more trembling hands and legs that refused to cooperate. No more staring longingly at her bow and wishing for a the days where she shot it freely. No more worrying over whether or not Elain would ruin everything they had built together.

How she wished she had gotten to give the old Maiden her thanks before she was gone. Now it was regret, and after a long time had passed, it would be a dull ache that would come to her when the faintest reminder of Bida would come too. Perhaps a sharp laugh would remind her. Or a set of discerning eyes. Or perhaps, just a cold, distant glare that would speak volumes without saying a word. She prayed those moments would come swiftly. The rawness of the present wounded her heart and soul.

When Old Bida and Llyn were tucked safely into their final resting places, a calm quiet settled over the elves in attendance. A wind blew through the all growing trees in the glade, old and new, and the heavy branches of the redwood creaked as it rocked with the gusts. And as if the Creators Themselves wanted to alleviate the People’s pain, the clouds broke briefly, and the midday sun peeked from behind the dark gray and shone down on the glade.

Sar’een walked to other trees in the glade, one larger and one much, much smaller. The larger one marked the grave of Old Bida’s departed mother, and with a swift hand, the Keeper chopped the end of a branch off with her sacred dagger at her belt. The second tree marked the grave of Llyn’s aunt, who had only passed a few years prior. Her tree was only a sapling, but the custom was that the blood should grow from each other, in life and in death. The branch Sar’een took was much smaller and wicked green, and when she had it in hand, she returned the graves, then handed Elain and Revas each one of the branches. The smaller for him, the larger for her. 

Once the branches were in hand, Sar’een stood over both of the graves and began to recite the departing rites. Elain felt her eyes fill with tears knowing it was truly, truly the end. There was no turning back.

_O Falon'Din_ _Lethanavir–Friend to the Dead_

_Guide my feet, calm my soul_

_Lead me to my rest._

She and Revas laid the branches down on the bodies in unison, placing them on their chests, then standing back upright. He seemed stoic and calm when she looked at him, but he did not raise his eyes to meet hers. They held Llyn in his gaze, as if he was afraid to let go.

_O Mythal Lathanavir – Great Protector_

_Watch over my loved ones_

_Offer them comfort while I am gone._

But they must be let go. The tears finally slipped down Elain’s cheeks and dripped down into the grave with her mentor. A last gift before she leaves forever, a last reminder that Bida was loved. That she was cherished. 

She cried for Llyn too, though they had not been close. His death was a mistake, one she played a large part in, and it was not fair that he was in a grave for it. Elain knew she must do better. She could not let her ego risk the lives again. Bida would expect that of her.

_O Sylaise Lathanavir – Warm Hearth_

_Give my body sustenance_

_While my journeys take me far._

But it was not just Bida and Llyn she would weep for. She envisioned in her mind’s eye Revas as her Banal’ras lying in a grave as well, his ruthless efficiency and unquestionable loyalty just as dead as her dearest ones. What she saw was a shadow, inky and black, laying in the wet ground, sinking beneath the linen bodies and disappearing into the earth. She bid it farewell, the old Revas farewell, and promised to treat the one that replaced him like he deserved.

_O Dirthamen_ _Lathanavir – Keeper of Secrets_

_Reveal to me the unseen_

_So I may be prepared._

She buried Sar’een in her mind too, the little girl she was. The little girl Elain had used and manipulated into trusting her, then found herself growing fond of despite herself. The little girl who transformed into a friend, a bird who needed her protection and encouragement. The little girl come woman, who longed for a life larger than what she had, and who died when Elain gave her what she wanted. She bid it farewell, that naive, sweet woman farewell, and promised to uplift the shrewd woman that replaced her. Sar’een was stronger than anyone of them knew, and Elain buried her thoughts of weakness along with everything else.

_O Elgar’nan Lathanavir – Earth Shaker_

_Should you recreate the world in my absence_

_Remember my bones when you build it anew._

She buried herself last. She buried the woman who hurt herself and everyone around her, who was too blind by her own ambition to see the world burning around her. Let flames engulf that woman who caused so much destruction, so much pain, so much death. Let hounds eat her bones, but by the Creators, please let some tree grow from her remains. Let Elain bloom into something more than she ever was, so that she could keep the promises she had made. 

Her tears did not stop when the ceremony ended, and she waited and watched as Bida’s body was covered in the earth that would nurture new life from it. The day grew long, and most had left to return to the camp, but Elain stayed. Elain stayed, and Revas stayed, and Sar’een stayed, and when the bodies were buried and there was nothing else, they still stayed.

They stood in silence, in chilling acknowledgement, that this was their reality now. Death was not the end of it, burial was not the end of it, and when they returned back to their lives...that would be no end either. Everything was on them now, and nothing could be taken granted for ever again. 

“C’mon,” Revas finally said, wrapping his arm around Elain’s waist and turning his head to Sar’een.

“Let’s go home.”

The trio left that glade and the dead behind and set out to return to the living. The noises of celebration could already be heard over the running river, and the smoke rising from the camp’s hearthfires could be seen on the horizon. 

There was a strangeness in seeing such a carefree act of abandon, to simply get lost in telling tales of the deeds and lives of lost loved ones. But the weight of the reality would still sit with them, still force them to never leave the mindset that all their decisions now held the burden of fate. They walked a knife’s edge in all they did, so many lives depending on them, and there was no room for mistakes anymore.

For if they did slip, nothing awaited them but another open grave. 

\---

The tiny wooden dove in Sar’een’s hand was as smooth as stone from all her years of handling it. Its beady little eyes looked at her, its broken claw on its foot dug into the pad of her thumb at she pressed against it, and its outstretched wings were still perfect, with every little feather carved in perfect detail.

Her mother had made it for her when she was officially accepted as Second in the clan. She asked the child Sar’een what she would like her to make, and the child Sar’een solemnly requested a dove in her likeness. Gray and soft, a beautiful song on its lips and a joy to anyone who heard it. Child Sar’een wanted to be that, with all her heart. 

She had no voice for song though. It sounded broken and cracked instead, and she could never hope to compete with the lilting loveliness of the huntresses or the laconic chants of the clan’s lorekeepers. Instead, her songs must be spoken by word, and even then, she was never as good as Loremaster Kellen or Paeris. 

Sar’een packed away the little wooden dove into her traveling chest she would take with her back to Skyhold. It sat nestled in with her Keeper’s robes, healing totems, and a small statue of Andruil she must carry with her now. Everything else in that yurt would stay, sitting for their owner’s return. 

It was all for show, of course. When would she wear her robes, or charge her totems, or pray to the Lady of the Hunt? She didn’t need any of those things in Skyhold, but leaving them behind would discourage the clan and light a fire of whispers about how Lavellan’s new Keeper didn’t care about the Old Ways. At least now she could say she tried, even if her Old Ways had no place in the chaos of the south. 

The dove though...she wasn’t sure why she wanted to bring it. Ever since she became First of the clan, she grew distant from her parents. Even now, her mother and father had spoken only a few words to her on her return to the Free Marches. Cordial welcomes, thankfulness that she lived, questions about her health, small things to fill the time. She did not doubt they loved her, and that she loved them, but a wedge had been driven between their family that only seemed to divide them further and further over time. 

The same way it made her feel so distant from her clan, even if they stood right in front of her. They seemed a relic of something past, and she felt guilty for wanting to leave them again and continue her mission against Corypheus. She knew she could not stay away forever, she knew her duties were too important, but until the Elder One’s head was off his neck and he was no longer of this world, the building of the clan had to wait. Corypheus was an unpleasant necessity and an even more unpleasant excuse. 

“What will you do once you’re back in Skyhold?” Merrill asked her from the end of her cot. Her friend carefully placed Sar’een’s supplies for the trip back to Wycome in a leather bag, mindful not to crush anything important. As if any of this was important. 

“Prepare to march on Corypheus, I suppose,” she answered. “I still need to find out where he has retreated to and what he plans next. I’ve idled here long enough.”

“True enough,” Merrill agreed with her plans. “Do you know I met him once?”

“You did?”

She nodded, “Yes. With Hawke, in an old Grey Warden prison. We were...well, it doesn’t matter what we were doing. I saw him wake and I saw him die. But I suppose he didn’t really die.”

“No, he didn’t,” Sar’een answered.

“It seems strange to see so much death, then realize that death isn’t the end of it. How many more can come back? How many more have?” Merrill stopped her packing and looked down at her hands. “It’s a nice thought. That the lives I’ve ended might not have ended.”

Sar’een sighed, then made her way to the cot and sat down next to her friend. 

“A nice thought indeed,” she replied softly. “But it seems that it’s only ever the monsters who don’t truly die. The ones who deserve better are the ones who never return.”

“Yes,” Merrill’s eyes filled with tears briefly, but she quickly composed herself and wiped them away. “It was a nice thought. But just that...a thought.”

She wrapped a comforting arm around Merrill’s shoulder and tilted her head to touch hers. Merrill sighed and laid her head against hers as she did, and they sat in companionable silence as they both reflected on all they lost, and how it would never return.

She was the only one who truly understood just how much was lost to Sar’een, and she was stricken with grief at the thought of saying goodbye to her as well. Returning to Skyhold with no one like her, no one who could commiserate with her on all she had given up for the greater good of her people...it was daunting. She was like Paeris in so many ways, but at least he had a wife, children. He had a family to return to, to fight for.

Sar’een had nothing anymore.

“Come with me, Merrill.”

It was impulsive, needy even, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt so very alone, and even if she refused to burden Merrill with everything she carried, just seeing her face...seeing the vallaslin so like her own would mean everything.

“I am coming with you, Sar’een. I have to get back to Kirkwall through the Eluvian,” she reminded her.

“No...I mean…” she nearly stuttered at her desperation, but caught herself. She picked up Merrill’s hand in hers and gently squeezed it. “I mean...come with me to Skyhold.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, “Me? Go to Skyhold? But….why?”

“Because I have no Dalish allies there. No one to advise me about the state of the clans,” she came up with the only excuse she could in the moment.

Merrill shook her head in disbelief, “Oh, I’d be terrible at that! I’ve lived away from them so long, I can hardly remember Keepers’ names, even less on the current politics.”

“But you know about the Eluvians!” Sar’een pointed out. “And if I’m going to be using the network, I need an expert to advise me on how to keep the integrity of the Crossroads and the safety of those traveling it.”

“I spent years trying to fix a broken one that killed Tamlen and forced Mahariel into the Grey Wardens. My judgment isn’t the best,” she answered sadly, then looked up towards her. “You’re just coming up with excuses, aren’t you?”

“No,” she stated, but Merrill’s furrowed brow told her that her lie had been uncovered.

“I don’t like tricks, Sar’een. And I don’t like to be used,” she said. “If you want me as a spy in Kirkwall or an agent or something just tell--”

Sar’een pressed a finger to her lip, “No, nothing like that. I’m...I’m…”

She faltered, drawing her hand back as if she had been burned and turning away from her friend. But soft fingers touched her cheek and turned her face back, where wide, green eyes urged her to go on.

“I’m sorry, Merrill,” her own eyes started to water, and the grief and longing that had filled her began to overflow. “I’m so, so sorry. You’re the only one who knows what I’ve been through, knows how foreign all this is to me. Among the humans, I am alone. Among my own people, I am alone. My heart is sickened from it all. I only want to see your face and hear your voice, so that I can be reminded.”

“Reminded of what?” she asked her tenderly. 

The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks, but she could not find the strength to wipe them away. Instead, Merrill sweeped her thumb over her face, wetting it with those salty streams.

“Reminded of who I was and of everything I miss. Of the Old Ways and the New Ways and how I have to bring them together to make us whole. Of all that’s at stake if I falter in my duties,” she confessed. “I need to be reminded so I can remember _what_ I’m fighting for.”

Without another word, Merrill drew her arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug, cradling her head with her hand, rocking her gently to and fro. She was warm and familiar and in that familiarity, Sar’een felt her will collapse. She wept long, hard tears, and let her soul cry out one final time before she must put back on the mask that would separate her from everything she loved. 

“I’ll come with you,” Merrill whispered, but it only made her weep more. 

\---

The campgrounds were in chaos the next day as the last wagon was loaded up to depart back to Wycome. Healing supplies were in shortage in the city, and Lavellan’s healers quickly brewed up potions and poultices to take back to the ones ailing from disease and remnants of the lyrium sickness. There was also a supply of cedar for rebuilding, as well as other random items that may be of use. 

Sar’een and Elain oversaw the packing and handoff of supplies, watching with quiet efficiency and issuing brusque orders as needed. Artisans and hunters alike scurried around them as they prepared for the Keeper’s departure, and before too long, the work would be done.

“Make sure the missive I prepared for Minister Zakros is given to the courier traveling with them,” Elain ordered Nellia next to her. “A proper accounting of all the items must be taken on arrival to the city to ensure we are keeping our word.”

A list of items that were being delivered so that Sal could confirm they were all delivered. Sar’een trusted they would be, but this arrangement was brand new, for both the city elves and her clan. Every precaution must be taken. It was a relief that Elain had it under control.

“I already gave it to her,” Nellia replied. “I saw to the other matter we discussed too. Everything is just as you asked.”

Elain smiled at her, “Very good. Thank you, Nellia. That’s all I’ll need from you today.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she nodded. 

“And Heliwr?”

“He’s with his father today,” Elain answered. “Revas will get more food for him from you tonight, if you’re available. Afterwards, we can have supper together and discuss the agenda tomorrow.”

Nellia returned her smile, all bright and wide. It ached Sar’een to see her old friend giving it to Elain instead of her.

“I’d love that! Oh, how exciting!” she clapped her hands. “Can I bring my daughter?”

Elain leaned over and kissed her cheek, “Of course Samahl is welcome. Go on then. We shall dine later.”

Nellia bowed her head slightly and turned to walk away, but stopped herself. As quick as a loose halla, she ran into Sar’een’s arms and gave her a fierce hug, wrapped her arms around her as if she would float away.

“Goodbye Keeper. Dareth shiral.”

Sar’een patted her back and kissed her atop her head, “Ma serannas, falon. We will see each other again soon.”

Nellia looked up at her face, her eyes wet with tears, “I hope so.”

She wiped the tears away and turned and walked briskly to her next destination. Sar’een was left feeling hollow at her departure, knowing all too well that she had grown apart from Nellia just as surely as she had everyone else. She missed those days with her, when they’d giggle for hours, and tell each other romantic stories far into the night. Even if she had changed though, she was profoundly glad that Nellia had not. Her heart was still as tender as the day she had left.

“There’s one more matter to discuss before you leave, Keeper,” Elain spoke up next to her. “Will you follow me?”

Sar’een nodded her agreement, knowing there was another issue she needed to speak with the Maiden on as well. Let them get it done with so she could return to the south with no worries in her chest.

Elain led her away from the chaos of the wagon caravan waiting to leave and into the dense woods of the forest surrounding them. They walked for a few minutes under the cool canopy under the trees, but they did not go very far. With the camp still in sight between the tree trunks, and with the sun still peeking through to reach them, they stopped at a makeshift shrine that had been set up. 

It was a statue of Andruil, the one the clan carried with them everywhere they went. Whenever they arrived in new campgrounds, the Maiden made sure it was set up so that the hunters may pay obeisance and so that the Lady of the Hunt could watch over the clan. So here She sat, in all her glory; no taller than a young child, made of stone and eroded by time, her face soft and rounded, her armor nearly indistinguishable. Her left hand held a wooden spear, Her right hand a wooden bow, and at the base of the statue, a copper brazier surrounded by items of value that had been left there to receive Her Blessing. 

“I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for what you’ve done for us,” Elain started. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she stopped her lightly. “This is only the beginning, and you’re going to have a lot of work to do, Ambassador.”

She smiled, “I look forward to it.”

“I’m glad, because some of it begins now,” Sar’een laughed softly. “Once I arrive back in Wycome and return through the Eluvian, I’m having it relocated to Autini. As Ambassador, I’m leaving you in charge of the safety of the network in the north. I’ll send word to Ambassador Briala, and you will meet her at the earliest possible date.”

Elain stared at her, her mouth in a tight line and her eyes wide, “I...I don’t know what to say. You’ve placed so much trust in me.”

“I know,” she crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the statue of Andruil. “But I trust you. You’ve made mistakes, but you’ve also seen the consequences of those mistakes. I know you can learn from it and do better. I can’t say the same for anyone else here.”

“Your trust will not be misplaced, ma falon,” Elain promised her. “I will do everything I can to turn the gift you’ve given me into something to benefit all of the People.”

“I hope so. It’d be a shame to lose it all once the Inquisition is out of the picture.”

The Maiden crinkled her brow and looked at her, deep in thought. She was mulling over the statement, seeing if she understood what Sar’een meant. 

“You think the Chantry will be rid of you once the Elder One is defeated?” she untangled it easily enough, and Sar’een shrugged.

“Possibly. I’m no fool, and I know that Wycome having an elven ruler and Lavellan having sovereign land is not going to go unnoticed. Humans do not like it when elves consider ourselves their equals.”

“This is why strengthening our military and economic stability is vital,” Elain agreed. “It will be harder to destroy us if they depend on us for safety and growth.”

“Exactly,” Sar’een nodded at her deduction. She knew Elain would understand. “Build up alliances, build up the militia forces we have, build up our roots in Autini so they may not be burned out. But it must be done quickly. I can hold the Chantry away, but not indefinitely. If they choose someone to sit on the Sunburst Throne who isn’t sympathetic to me or my people….well, you know what it means.”

“I do,” she responded gravely. “I will do everything within my power to see it done.”

Sar’een smiled and set a hand on her shoulder, “I know you will. It’s why I chose you for all of this. It’s why I put my faith in you.”

Elain set her hand atop hers, “There is only one issue. My power stems from authority given to me by you, and my authority given to me by the Mantle. Only one of them will mean anything among the Dalish.”

“And the High Council is imminent.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I will do what you’ve asked of me no matter the cost, but in return, I only hope you can see how me holding the Mantle benefits us all.”

“You don’t have to try to convince me, Elain,” Sar’een assured her. “I’m your Keeper, and I’m your friend. I will stand for you in the High Council whether it benefits us or not. They will have to fight through the both of us to take it away.”

“And if they do? What of Revas? Our son?”

Sar’een dropped her hand, “Heliwr will be safe, even if I have to raise him myself. And Revas…”

Elain’s eyes pleaded with her, though her words did not. She knew what this meant to her, what Revas meant to her, even if Sar’een had no love for him, and in spite of it all, they would be stronger for the clan together than separated.

“Revas is Warlord of Lavellan. He’ll be able to protect himself,” she said. “But in any case, I will fight for him to stay here with Heliwr, if the worst should come to pass.”

Her eyes watered at the assurances, but she squared her shoulders and righted herself immediately, “Thank you, Keeper. I promise your faith in me will not be wasted. I will repay you, someday.”

“But that day is not today,” she went on, her voice going to stone. “Today is the day you depart to return to your Skyhold, where you will plan your next moves. There is a great evil in this world that must be destroyed, and you have been tasked to hunt this evil down.”

Elain reached to her belt and pulled out an ornate knife, its hilt ivory and its blade polished steel. 

“Kneel down before the Lady of the Hunt, Keeper.”

She did so, her knees in front of the brazier, her gaze turned upwards to the Goddess’ face. She did not stare down on her benevolently, like Andraste had done, but instead, peered through her, as if she was insignificant, an insect to be crushed. The grace of Andraste could not be found in Andruil. Here, there was only feral cunning, a will to dominate. 

“Andruil asks for Blood, and honors Blood in turn,” Elain began the rite she wanted to perform, though Sar’een was unsure which one it would be. “She watches over the Hunt, She exerts her Dominion over the Prey. When Her Arrow is loosed, Her Prey dies.”

“Keeper Sar’een, you have spilled the blood and honored the blood spilled in turn,” she went on. “You have proven yourself a devotee of the Goddess, a true follower of our Patron. You follow the path faithfully and bring glory to your clan. For this, you are worthy.”

Elain swiftly brought the knife up to Sar’een’s head, and with practiced precision, began shearing off the underside of her hair. The significance of the act made her heart stop and her breath catch. A high honor was being bestowed on her, once she didn’t think she could ever earn.

But the Maiden must have thought otherwise. It was only a few moments of work, and Sar’een sat perfectly still for it. She cut at the nape of her neck, around her ears, and up to the crown of her head, leaving only a strip of hair running from her forehead to that crown. Sar’een dared not move to feel what had been done, though her hands trembled and her chest ached. 

The cutting was short, but the rite was not yet ended. Carefully, Elain gathered all the hair she had cut, picking pieces off her scarf and collar, then carried them to the brazier. Once there, she let her hands open, and all the shed hair fell into the flames.

“May the Lady of the Hunt accept Sar’een’s sacrifice. Let Her Sister, She of the Moth, see through the Undying Flame and tell Her Sister of the great battles she has won. Let all the Gods bless her as she holds her weapon in her hand and hunts her prey.”

Sar’een watch the fire blaze ever so slightly at its meal. It was a part of her feeding eternity, giving of herself to the things beyond her comprehension. She could smell her sacrifice in her nose, taste it on her lips, and it invigorated her. The flames destroyed that part of her, and now she was made new. Just as the Old Ways dictated: flesh for flesh. Part of you for something in return.

“Stand, Keeper Sar’een.”

She did so without question, without word, and turned to face the Maiden. When she did, Elain pricked her forehead with the end of the blade as quick as the wind. It hurt, but not enough to cry out. What a failure she would be if she had. 

“Andruil asks for Blood and honors Blood in turn.”

The Maiden kissed the spot of blood that had undoubtedly pooled on her forehead, then pulled back and stared into her eyes. It was nearly over, and Sar’een had nearly earned an honor only reserved for hunters and warriors.

“You are sanctified. May Her Will be done”

She let out a choked gasp at the end of the rite, and her hands immediately rushed to her head and felt the soft, sheared hair on her scalp. They trembled as she explored her new self, and her bones nearly shook at the realization of how much it meant to her. 

Elain had made her one of her own. She performed a rite she usually let the Warlord or lead hunters do. She had seen to her recognition as a warrior of Clan Lavellan herself. Sar’een was suddenly back in the yurt when she volunteered to go to the Conclave all that time ago, and she was suddenly embraced by the powerful Maiden who shut down all the objections and brought her under her wing. 

“I...I’m a warrior?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Elain responded gravely. “And you must never forget it.”

“How can I? I wear it on my head as clearly as the vallaslin on my face.”

She looked on her coldly, “Even the strongest warriors forget themselves. They get lost in their own minds, their own doubts. The gaze of the Lady of the Hunt is a heavy burden, after all. But you must look at yourself everyday, and you must remember who you are, Keeper Sar’een. You must remember the strength you carry. And when you see yourself, you will _know_ your duty. You will _know_ your path. You will _know_ your _home_.”

“I will know my home…” she repeated quietly to herself.

Elain turned and began to walk away from the shrine, leaving her with her thoughts and the remainder of her burning hair. It still lingered, like a powerful spell not quite able to rid itself of the waking world, and she had succumbed to it gladly. 

For all the talks of the gifts Sar’een had given Elain, this gift she had given her was beyond what she could imagine. For the first time in her life, she was part of something because _she earned it_. It did not fall into her lap, she did not accidentally step into it and have to clean up the mess afterwards. She had not been manipulated or shaped into being what the Lady of the Hunt wanted her to be. Everything she had done, she had done for herself to deserve this. 

No, no no no. The gift given here was far greater than her friend could imagine. 

She had given her the place she always wanted, a reason to find hope in her cause. There may be no happy ending for her, but by all the damned gods of this world, it would be the ending she would _earn._

“Hunt well, Inquisitor,” the Maiden called over her shoulder at her departure. “The Mother of Hares will be watching.”

Sar'een stiffened her back and held her chin high.

_Then let Her see what I can do._


	61. Intermission: Mother, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autumn arrives, and Clan Lavellan settles itself into Autini with celebrations.

“There it is.”

The new watchtower that stood on the banks of the Minanter might not seem like a lot for a huge human city like Starkhaven, but to Revas, it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Made of mud and stone, it was the height of ten men, and placed deliberately where the Ethinan could get the most out of it. Any scout sitting atop the tower would able to see over a vast portion of Autini, nearly all the way out to the road being paved on the edges of their territory. Surveillance of the valley was integral to their little settlement’s success, and even though Elain and several Council members wanted to start construction on the gathering pavilion first, he had won the fight to strengthen their defense first and foremost. 

His first real win as Warlord, and it had only been a few months since they were deeded Autini by Sal. And damned if it didn’t feel like a win too. If this kept up, he saw many more political victories in his future.

“You look very proud,” Elain whispered at her spot next to him at the edge of the forest. They overlooked the clearing that lead to the tower, where all of the clan had gathered to witness its dedication to the Mother of Hares.

“I am,” he replied. “Not everyday the Maiden agrees with the rest of Council and still loses.”

“If I had truly wanted to delay the building of the tower, I would have,” she replied stiffly. “Even the Maiden must pick and choose her battles.”

“Still, you didn’t side with me on this. I won the battle on my own,” he pointed out, then crossed his arms over his chest as he admired the fruits of his arguments. 

“Hrmph,” she gave a little snort of acknowledgment, but he knew she wouldn’t admit it with words. At that, he smiled.

“Don’t worry, Peach,” he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “There will be plenty more fights where you can get the upperhand on me.”

“Of that I have no doubt, Warlord,” she answered sternly, then looked up at him and seemed to soften. “Consider this win a wedding gift from me; so that in the future when you do not win, you can remember that I can put aside my pride from time to time for your sake and the love I bear for you.”

“A military watchtower is a testament of your love?” he asked her with laugh. “And they say you’re cold and cruel!”

She cocked her eyebrow at his mirth, then stood on the tips of her toes to whisper into his ear.

“We both know how warm I can be...and I don’t recall you ever complaining about my cruelty,” she bit his earlobe discreetly at the words. “I’d be happy to prove it to you after the feast.”

“Promises, promises,” he murmured before slinking his hand under her cloak and settling it firmly on her ass. She flashed him a wicked smirk as he did so, nearly daring him to do more. He rose to the challenge and slid that hand down even further, slipping his fingers between her thighs from behind, making her lips part ever so slightly at his touch. Suddenly, Revas wasn’t as interested in his victory as he was of the prize right in front of him. 

It was Sorn who cleared his throat loudly next to him, reminding him.

“Not to interrupt the incredibly important matters of what you’re going to do in the privacy of your yurt, but shouldn’t we get this ceremony started?” he asked in agitation. Revas quickly pulled his hand away from under her cloak, but Elain’s cheeks flushed a bright red in embarrassment. “Or we could wait for you to finish digging for treasure, I guess.”

“What rudeness from your _advisor_ , Warlord,” Elain seethed. “I understand how everything changing here must be new and frightening to him, but after so many years as my own confidant, you’d think he would’ve had the wherewithal to learn discretion.”

Sorn shrugged, “I’m sorry if I don’t take a lecture about discretion from the person getting fondled in broad daylight seriously.”

Her lips went into a tight line, and her eyes blazed with anger, “Nellia!”

“Yes, Maiden?” the hearthworker’s disembodied voice returned her call from a few feet away.

“Come with me. We need to be at the front of the watchtower for the ceremony. I won’t be relegated to the back lines,” she barked her orders at Nellia. “And bring Heliwr!”

She left in a flurry of rage with Nellia trailing behind her, handing off Heliwr into Elain’s waiting arms and her voice chattering away to her friend as she did so. Revas did his best not to laugh as he watched them go. 

“Look at that. Now she’s pissed off,” he tried to push the blame on Sorn to make him feel guilty.

“Don’t know why,” Sorn answered innocently. “I’d be happy as a clam if I had someone finger deep in my mince pie.”

With that, he lost his battle to hold his laughter. 

“You’re a fucking cunt, you know that?” he shoved his cousin’s arm roughly as he laughed. Sorn just smiled.

“It isn’t a lie!” he proclaimed. “But yes, I know, and I couldn’t care less about it. You didn’t bring me on to make the Maiden happy.” He eyed Revas then. “Besides, looks like you had that pretty damn well covered anyways.”

“Fucking cunt,” he shook his head but couldn’t stop his smile. “You know pissing her off doesn’t help us, right? She’ll shoot me down in Council out of spite now.”

“Then we organize another petition from the hunters to get shit done,” he responded quickly. “She’s not as big of a threat as she likes to think she is.”

Revas looked at the birch trees behind them, their leaves already turning flaming shades of orange and red for the autumn season. Time was flying away, “Don’t underestimate her. Winter isn’t far off, and she’s the one controlling the rations...and the supplies coming in and out of Wycome and Ansburg. With all the resources we’re using to build our little settlement up, when shortages start pouring in, the Maiden is the one who makes the call of who gets what.”

“Ah,” Sorn said quietly. “That’s right. The Keeper probably expected that too, if everything she’s sanctioned so far is anything to go by.”

“Yeah. So mind your mouth for a little while until she cools down. We won this fight, but I don’t want to spend all the goodwill we have at once,” he didn’t like having to give him the order, but it was necessary. There would be other battles in the future, and Elain might not be as willing to let those fights go. “Besides...I’m getting married today. Don’t know how I feel about you taunting my bride beforehand.”

“Maybe you should feel like an idiot for getting yourself into this,” Sorn chastised him as he began to limp with his cane towards the watchtower. “Me, Twig, all the Lead Hunters...we all told you it's a bad idea. You’re tying yourself to her in a way that can’t be interpreted as anything but defiance of your oaths you took. The High Council won’t see that as you learning the error of your ways.”

“Not going to pretend that it was a mistake, Sorn,” he answered him brusquely. “I did what I did. I don’t plan on stopping. She’s the mother of my child, my entire world. Nothing I do is worthwhile without her. If High Council wants me to renounce her to keep myself safe, then they don’t know me.”

“What if it’s the only way to keep your son safe?”

Revas stopped abruptly and grabbed his cousin by the shoulder, turning him around sharply.

“No one is going to decide _anything_ about my son except for me and Elain. No one has that right but us,” he said, his voice lowered and deathly serious. “You’re supposed to be here to give me counsel and help me navigate the politics now that shits gotten complicated. If you can’t do that without trying to scare me into forsaking my family, then I have no use for you.”

“Calm down, Revas,” Sorn attempted to walk his concerns back. “I _am_ your family, remember? I’m trying to protect you.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Listen,” Sorn held out an arm and set it on his chest. “I don’t have to like everything you do, but I have to give you all the options available to you. I know you have your heart set on declaring your relationship before the Creators and the clan, but you had to know how it would look to the High Council. If you still want to do it after seeing what it means, then do it. I’m not going to stop you. No one will. We stand behind you, no matter what you decide.”

“If you stand by my decision, then don’t bring Heliwr into this,” he warned him. “I’m not going to let him be used to manipulate me.”

Sorn sighed, then looked to the watchtower, “Alright, alright. I’ll back off. Just remember that what I’m throwing at you will be nothing compared to what Elain’s brother can come up with.”

“I know,” Revas relented, “but I don’t need it from people I trust too.”

“I’m just worried for you, that’s all. Neither one of us have any siblings, so you’re the closest thing to a brother that I’ve got. I don’t want to see this all come crashing down because you couldn’t resist having a tumble with a pretty girl.”

“It’d be a lot easier if that’s all it was, right?” he sighed. “I could move on from a quick fuck in an aravel while the camp was asleep. Can’t move on from my heart telling me I don’t want to live without her.”

“You always were a lovesick knob-head,” Sorn whacked his knee with his cane, making Revas jump back and laugh. “Guess someone has to fill the void Llyn left.”

“Ha, yeah,” he agreed sadly. The whole clan seemed to be gathered now, and the dull resonance of a hundred voices talking at once filled his ears. “You think he’d like all this?”

“What, the crowd waiting to see the dedication? Or the tower itself?”

“The tower.”

“I think he would. It’s sturdy, well-built, crafted by elven hands. He’d probably like being able to lookout over the entire valley instead of juggling shifts with the Ethinan,” Sorn answered him, his face lost in the memories of their friend. “Probably sneak up there when he wanted to be alone, when he wanted to get away from everything bothering him. Nothing but him, the sky, the river, the mountains...everything he loved.”

“Yeah,” Revas said softly. So softly, he doubted Sorn heard him, but a small pat on his shoulder indicated otherwise. 

“Come on. We’ve gotta name this thing _Llewellyn Tower_ to make it official, dedicate it to the Creators, then go watch you act like an absolute fool and get married to a scion who took an oath of celibacy.”

Sorn ambled his way towards the base of the tower, and Revas watched him intently for a moment, then followed behind in silence. He knew his cousin had his best interests at heart, and he trusted him. Nothing he said came from a place of anything other than concern. 

At least he cared. At least the hunters cared. In a world that was changing and filling up with new threats, at least he could come home and have the people under his command supporting him. It was more than he deserved.

Revas took one last look up at the tower before it was dedicated, and decided he would spend the rest of his time as Warlord making sure their loyalty wasn’t misplaced.

\---

“You look absolutely radiant tonight, Elain,” Aricia cupped her jaw in her hands and kissed both of her cheeks in congratulations at the feast that evening. “Regardless of all the drama, it is wonderful to see a happy union in our clan.”

They sat at a low wooden table in the temporary pavilion that had been set up for the ceremony, surrounded by the clan eating and drinking and singing. It was loud and raucous, but the food was spread out before her, hot and delicious, the wine was from Antiva, and the scent of flower garlands hanging from the pavilion’s rafters filled the air. It was comfortable, familiar, and everything she could’ve asked for. 

Such a shame that other matters on her mind made it all feel so suffocating.

She wished Revas hadn’t left her by herself to take toasts with his friends, while she sat enduring the old guard of the clan giving her dreadful looks while they feigned congratulations. Fake smiles, fake laughs, all while their eyes judged her and the product of her indiscretions who sat on her lap. Heliwr was thankfully unaware of what all this attention meant, and just seemed happy to look at the bright lights of the lanterns and the loud music. Elain wished she was able to do that; instead, her stomach churned at the smell of heavy food and heady wine. 

She turned her attention away from her rebellious gut and towards Aricia. The Hearthmatron’s smile on her face seemed genuine, but the smile Elain returned was not. She knew better than to trust good intentions from the Council.

“Thank you, Aricia. I appreciate you performing the ceremony for us in the Keeper’s absence,” she replied sweetly. “It means so much to us that everyone could forget the politics for an evening and share our joy.”

“Of course dear,” she stroked Elain’s cheek lovingly. “My husband and others in the Council may seem sour, but it’s only a show, you know. Many of the clan members still harbor deep fears of the Creators and Their retribution for oathbreakers, and we sadly must play on that to get the upperhand. Our non-combatants must feel as if they have a voice too. It’s nothing personal.”

“I understand all too well, Hearthmatron. I’ve been the Maiden for nearly a decade...the impersonal nature of political maneuvering is not lost on me.”

Aricia laughed, “Oh, how I know that! Such a shrewd thing you are. And you always have been, ever since you were a little girl sitting in my yurt, learning your lessons. Kellen doesn’t want to admit the depths of your talents, but I tell him all the time not to underestimate you. Ah, but my husband always thinks his schemes are impenetrable.”

“We all do, from time to time,” she responded politely. “I can’t count how many occasions where I thought my plans were as solid as stone, only to see them slip through my hands like sand.” 

“The cost of placing bets on a sure thing, I suppose. It makes for a fine lesson though: never underestimate your opponent.”

Heliwr wriggled on Elain’s lap while Aricia spoke as he attempted to reach for the cup in front of him on the table. She offered him her finger instead to play with, “A good lesson, indeed. However, it’s not always easy to see who our opponents are, is it?”

“Aah!” Heliwr exclaimed as he rejected his mother’s finger and bent over to reach for the shiny cup again. He wobbled as he nearly fell forward in trying to grab hold of his prize, and she had to catch him so he wouldn’t bang his soft little head on the corner of the table.

With a sigh, Elain picked the cup up and drained the remaining liquid inside, then handed it to her son. He immediately pulled it into his mouth, his new preferred method of exploring the world, and she was only glad it wasn’t another one of her beads he had gotten hold of. 

“Not easy at all, Maiden,” Aricia replied while she looked on Heliwr’s game with a smile. “And our opponents always seem to change from one battle to the next. Why, look at you and I! We’ve butted heads on so many matters, but as of late, we seem to be on the same plane of thinking for the future of the settlement.”

And there it was. The opening for flattery and cooperation, as large as a lake by all accounts. Elain had to control the urge to smirk at the Hearthmatron’s transparency, and instead, brightened her smile. She was interested in seeing what Aricia had to propose. 

“We have been very agreeable on the matters of construction, yes,” her smiled beamed as she answered. Let her feel welcomed and comfortable. Let her spill every secret she had. “Perhaps we finally understand each other’s points of view?”

Aricia bent over and tickled Heliwr on his cheek, “Oh, I think it’s because you have a child now. You look at the world differently when such a fragile thing is in your care, and your point of view changes because of it.”

“Hmm, perhaps,” Elain murmured, though she did not agree in the least bit. If anything, having Heliwr only shortened her patience for trivialities. The Hearthmatron did not need to know that though. 

“Such a darling thing he is,” she put a finger on each of Heliwr’s cheeks, then pushed them in and released them. He rewarded her with a toothless smile for the game. “He looks so much like Revas when he was a child, with that lopsided grin. You must be very proud.”

“We are,” Elain assured her, then leaned down to kiss the top of her son’s head. 

“What a shame it will be if you lose the Mantle and never get to see him grow up.”

Aricia continued squeezing Heliwr’s cheeks as if she had not said anything out of the ordinary, and he squealed and flailed his arms in delight over it. Elain was not as amused, however, and abruptly drew him in closer to her chest, placing her hand on the back of his head as if to protect him. 

“Oh, no need to worry, dear. I’m not threatening you,” Aricia said brightly. “Just musing on the potential outcome of this High Council. Certainly it crossed your mind that if you are found guilty of blasphemy, you will not be allowed to stay here?”

Heliwr whined at Elain hugging him tightly against her chest, “Of course it crossed my mind.”

“And don’t you think a marriage and a child gives them irrefutable evidence of your crimes against your Goddess?”

Elain said nothing but stared icily at the Hearthmatron. Aricia returned her stare, but she still smiled all the same. It infuriated her.

“Of course you do. Shrewd little girls never stop being shrewd little girls,” she picked up her cup from the table and sipped from it. “You have no need to concern yourself with what I think though, Maiden. I’m sure you have plans for every outcome and have heard even the most recent rumors being whispered ear to ear.”

Aricia was not ignorant of how the political back and forth went, and Elain knew she had an ulterior motive to whatever she was attempting to propose. It left a rancid taste in her mouth that she would approach her so brazenly at her wedding feast, and she scanned the room looking for Revas. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him caught in a drink with his mother and...Loremaster Kellen. His eyes met hers and pleaded jokingly for an escape. He was either too distracted or too drunk to realize what was happening. 

Elain snapped her eyes back to Aricia, narrowing her gaze on her aging face.

“I see you have a story to tell that you want me to listen to,” she started, reaching her free hand out and running her finger along the rim of Aricia’s cup. “And you’ve staged a nice little scene for it all to play out. I am not the only shrewd girl here.”

Aricia chuckled softly, “Not as clever or cunning as I’d like, but it’s done the job.”

“And Kellen is part of this?”

The Hearthmatron lifted her eyes and set them for a moment on her husband, then turned back to Elain, “In his way, yes, though he’s ignorant of what I’m doing. He’s a staunch traditionalist who would not approve, you see.”

“I’m listening then,” Elain pulled her finger back and grabbed an empty cup at the table, holding it out to her. Aricia grinned again, then reached for a pitcher of wine, but she shook her head, “The water.”

Aricia gave her a curious look, but set the pitcher of wine down and reached for a canteen of water instead. She poured the liquid into Elain’s cup and proceeded.

“I’ll make it quick. I would not want to interrupt the evening’s festivities for long,” she started. “You must understand, I do not do this lightly. My job here in the clan is my life, and I have worked very hard to get where I am. By extending my hand out to you, I put my own reputation in great peril.”

“Do not pretend you are doing me any favors, Aricia. We’re both too smart to believe that.”

“Well, maybe _you_ are, but I like to think this is a great favor to you and your little family. You receive much more out of it than I do, I assure you,” she continued. “But I won’t deny I do receive something. There is some selflessness involved though, so I can’t feel too guilty about it.”

Aricia took another drink, then moved on, “After that whole Wycome affair, many of the people in this clan are willing to forgive and forget your transgressions. They see you as a capable leader, one our Keeper has entrusted with ensuring a smooth transition into a settlement. I’ve heard the gossip from the people mending tunics as well as the ones chopping wood for building. There’s a general air of excitement, and most of us can see the value that you bring.”

“Including you, Heathmatron?” Elain questioned her.

She nodded slowly, “Yes, including me. My husband is a traditionalist, but I am a realist, my dear. I see the way the wind blows, and I know that none of the Creators are going to reach out of the ether and smite you down for acting upon your...urges.”

Elain blushed at the insinuation and took a sip of her water. As natural and lovely as it was, speaking of her intimacy was still difficult for her. It had been a secret between them so long, having it out in the open and recognized left her feeling vulnerable.

“No need to be ashamed. Truly, how could we have expected otherwise?” Aricia tried to placate her. “Two young, hot-blooded elves, spending all their time together, traveling long distances with nothing but each other for company...it’s a wonder you’re the first Maiden for this to happen to. Unbelievable, really.”

“You say it’s not something the clan concerns themselves with, but you and I both know there are still holdouts,” Elain attempted to change the subject. “My father has firmly fallen into the traditionalist camp, now that it has affected him personally, and he still has sway over many in the clan.”

“Mmhmm, no one is denying that. Vhannas is hoping that tradition will win out so that your new husband will be disgraced and forced to leave, and you will be left bereft and vulnerable. Then, he can reform you to his liking. Such a fool he is,” she stated bluntly. “Those of us with more common sense realize it’s not Revas that would be disgraced and banished...it’s you.”

Elain swallowed hard, unable to deny the truth in it. Aricia sighed at her obvious discomfort, then leaned in to pat her hand. 

“A difficult thing to swallow, certainly, but all is not hopeless. There are...options.”

“Like what?” she asked. “What could you possibly offer that I haven’t already pondered over?”

“Support. A voice against naysayers. A few words and letters to powerful friends in other clans that owe me favors,” she replied swiftly. “You see, having you in power here is not such a bad thing. I have more textiles and healing supplies than I have had in years, and for the most part, we both want to see more trade coming into the clan. But I also can’t help but notice our hunters outnumber the rest of the clan. And I certainly can’t forget our new Warlord marching the lot of them into our Council to petition for a watchtower after we had already decided to build a permanent pavilion to attend to the governance of the clan. Why, them just sitting there, bows on their backs and snarls on their faces...it was enough to chill anyone’s blood. What was one delay for the sake of peace?”

“Work on the pavilion has already begun. There is no need to take it personally,” she reminded her. 

“Not personally, no,” Aricia quickly cut in, “but it does make me wonder: what happens next? My son tells me that the hunters will want barracks soon, and after the pavilion is done, we may have to focus our efforts on that, instead of making storehouses and more permanent housing. Our clan is only so large, and labor is limited.”

“He wants barracks next? Twig told you that?” Elain questioned her. Revas had not mentioned this to her, but that was unsurprising. He worked in the interest of the hunters, and often those interests did not align with what she believed was best. He had taken to waiting until he presented ideas in Council before speaking to her of them. Something she was not fond of, naturally.

“Da’kellen implied it, yes. And what if the Warlord marches his hunters in Council again? And again and again until there is no one to tell him _no_?”

Elain’s brow creased in thought, “Boundaries will have to be set. He cannot use the hunters as his personal mercenaries.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “Now tell me this...what if there was no Maiden anymore to ensure these boundaries are set? Without her in the clan to enforce them, why, I do believe the Warlord could enact a soft coup, leaving the rest of us with no recourse.”

She bit her lip at the possibility. Was the Hearthmatron setting ideas in her mind, or was Revas truly capable of what she painted? Elain’s instincts told her not to trust anyone in this matter, especially not the Council. Everyone had an agenda. Aricia, Kellen, Vhannas...even Revas. Until she could decide what their agendas were, anything could be a manipulation to undermine her. 

Bida would have advised her caution. In this instance, she would’ve been right.

“And what would you have me do? If the High Council decides I must leave, then I must leave,” she asked, attempting to lead Aricia to the conclusion she knew she had drawn. There was much to think about, but she needed the whole picture first.

“The High Council may be persuaded to be lenient on you, dear. Perhaps the Mantle will not sit on your shoulders, but because of the great service you’ve done for the People, perhaps they can be convinced to allow you to stay,” she proposed. “And if you stay...we have recourse.”

“What recourse?”

Aricia laughed again, this one darker, “Against the Warlord, of course. We may not be able to battle him outright and win, but his wife...the mother of his child...she has power.”

It was Elain’s turn to laugh, “You are delusional if you think I have any control over Revas.”

The Hearthmatron stop her laughing and took on a countenance of severity. 

“Do you know how long I’ve been married to Kellen?” she asked, but did not wait for Elain to respond. “Thirty two years. Longer than you’ve been alive, dear. We’ve had three beautiful children together. We buried one of them together, an infant no bigger than your little boy. We said goodbye to our Nesta together, when she moved to another clan. We’ve endured pain and triumphs, victories and losses. All of it together. And throughout our long years together, we learned when to cooperate, when to compromise, and how to communicate. It has kept us strong.”

“It’s not about control,” she went on. “There’s a level of trust and mutual respect between us that allows us to work around each other as needed. I understand his traditionalist viewpoints and allow him his space, and he recognizes my goal of prosperity over simple preservation and allows me the same. But there are times where our disagreements are too vast for any of that to work. In the case of you, for example, he does not approve of our sudden alignment of interests.”

 

“Naturally,” Elain mumbled as she swirled her water in her cup and watched it with disinterest.

Aricia cleared her throat at the interruption, “So what is a devoted wife to do in that situation, hmm? Allow him to have his way and forsake my own goals? Bicker with him constantly until he is sick of fighting and relents? Those are the paths for the weak-willed, which I do not count myself among.” She paused for a moment, then smiled at Heliwr again. “The weak solutions never last, dear. Instead, you must use all the charms and cleverness at your disposal.”

The Hearthmatron pointed to her husband, “See? He distracts your partner so I may speak with you alone, because I convinced him that ingratiating himself with the new Warlord would go farther than his constant whining about him. Look how he laughs and smiles. All a ruse that he thinks he’s so clever for, with the Warlord none the wiser. Truly, he believes that he has won this round of political dice because I placed the idea in his head that merely acting polite was more endearing than his constant sourness. Can you imagine?”

“Would it surprise you if I said I can?” she replied sarcastically.

Aricia frowned slightly at the remark, but continued, “A spouse should know her partner on every level, for when she does, she knows exactly what they need to hear to satisfy their complaints and give them peace of mind. More often than not, it’s a simple idea that needs to be planted and nurtured, and they will grow it into something much larger. But if you decide what the seed to be planted is, you get some control over what result will spring from it. Do you understand, clever girl?”

“You’re asking me to manipulate Revas into doing what I want by making him think it was his idea,” she concluded, then glanced towards him as he battled to pretend whatever Kellen was talking about was interesting. “Despite what the clan would like to think, the Warlord is not stupid. And he knows me as well as I know him. He will see through any attempts at manipulation.”

“What works for Kellen works for Kellen. You will have to find your own way to convince Revas of the merits of your ideas,” she explained dully. “Perhaps he will respond better to you alone in your bed. Perhaps he will have his heart turned by tender pleads from you on your son’s behalf. Motherhood is a tool to be used, just as much as your body can be used. A clever girl girl like you can find many ways to make him be so madly obsessed with you, he would hunt the moon if you asked.”

“And say if I did?” Elain was growing very irritated, very quickly. So far, the Hearthmatron had lectured and bored her, but gave her no reason to follow this advice. “Say if I was able to turn him towards interests that aligned with my own...what are you offering for my cooperation?”

Aricia drank again, then flicked the bottom of Heliwr’s chin in amusement, “Your mamae is so, so clever! She always understands the subtext of conversations. Will you be clever too, Da’assan?”

“My patience is growing thin, Aricia. And Revas has even less than I. Kellen will not be able to distract him much longer.”

“Fine, ruin my fun if you must! I will be blunt then,” she sighed dramatically, then leaned in closer to her. “Most Council members have a distaste for your methods and reach for power, but you Maiden, are the lesser of two evils. The Warlord is new and untested, but well loved by his hunters, and already decorated and respected for one so young. He has much more influence than he knows, and when he finally does realize this, there will be little we can do to deny him. If you are to lose your Mantle, Lavellan loses the only hope of taming the beast...that is, unless you are able to stay and influence him as his wife, instead of as a Council member. So I propose this: I will put my support behind you, through those entrusted under my care and through those with more influence than I that I call _‘friend_ ’. We will testify to the High Council and make it more difficult for your brother to paint you as a villain. In return, we ask that you consider the needs of the clan before the ambition of the Warlord. You and I both want to see this settlement prosper, and it will be very difficult if Revas is allowed to trample over us.”

Elain stared at her cup, watching the water inside swish against the walls of the vessel, her throat dry but her will stronger than her thirst. Aricia’s plan was so very similar to the one that she and Revas had come up with the last winter; the one that escalated into getting Llyn killed. They wanted to make a love story that was impossible to condemn, but only ended up sending their friend to his death. She would not make that mistake again. 

“Aab! Aab!” Heliwr babbled to her as she mused on Aricia’s plans, and she rocked him mindlessly on her lap as she tried to focus. He tossed the empty cup he had been holding in his hand when he did not get the attention he wanted, and it clattered to the dirt-packed floor with a _clang_. She gritted her teeth at the interruption and leaned down to pick the discarded cup up.

“It looks like my husband has accomplished his goals, Maiden,” Aricia said ominously as she looked over Elain’s shoulder. “The sands of time are flowing swiftly.”

“If I agree to do this,” she started, “then you must tell me everything you tell your ‘ _friends_ ’. I must be able to approve the messaging.”

Aricia snapped her fingers, “Done! And as for what I will tell my friends...it’s as simple of pleading the case of stopping a mother from being torn away from her child. No one with a conscious could find that to be an acceptable outcome.”

Heliwr grabbed the cup from Elain’s hand and threw it again. She groaned at his misbehavior, but picked it up once more, this time placing it on the table. He reached once more, and in trying to stop him, the cup was knocked over by his ungraceful arms. He screamed at his new toy being whisked away, and Elain pulled him up and settled his head on her shoulder. 

It did not calm his tantrum, and he flailed in her arms, kicking his legs and scratching at her neck with his sharp little nails. 

“Heliwr, stop this,” she chastised him through gritted teeth as she tried to force his hands from reaching out. It only made him scream louder. “Enough!”

Aricia eyed her as she struggled to get her son under control, “You might want to pretend to have a shred of patience for your child in you if you’d like the plea to seem genuine.”

“I’m doing the best I can!” she hissed back at her while Heliwr tried to climb his way out of her arms. Elain pulled him in close more forcefully than she’d like, but at the urging, he was content to be still and whimper his discontent. “He hates me, no matter what I do.”

“Tsk tsk,” Aricia clicked her tongue. “He doesn’t hate you. You and him just don’t understand each other, that’s all.”

“I don’t need your pity,” she responded harshly, but her words made her look down at the red, unhappy little face of her son. He did hate her, and she did not blame him.

“Ah, but you do need my support, dear,” she pointed out immediately. “Now...what do you say?””

Elain frowned at the immediacy of the answer, but knew the opportunity may not be offered again. She still needed to be cautious, but what Aricia was asking of her wasn’t unreasonable. Nor was it something she hadn’t already thought of doing herself. Elain had no intention of lying down and letting Revas obtain all his glory, despite their new union in front of the clan. She had goals of her own, plans to be implemented, victories to achieve. 

And with this understanding with the Hearthmatron, her chances of success grew ever greater. She needed only reach for it, and to be brave, like Bida had warned her. So she did, but on her terms.

“It seems to me that your assurances that I would receive more out of this than you was a lie. I could easily enough convince people independently of words you will try to spread, and the effort involved would be negligible. And in exchange for promises of things I can accomplish myself, you want me to turn the Warlord to whatever course of action you prefer, knowing full well that at every defeat, I lose more and more integrity in the eyes of the hunters,” Elain laid out the situation clearly so she would understand. She would not be played for a child, and she had learned her lessons well enough to demand more. “This simply will not do. So instead, I offer this: you will come to me directly with any measures you’d like to implement, or concerns you may have, and I will present them to the Council and Keeper myself, if I deem them worthwhile. I reserve credit for all implementations done, and in turn, will go against the Warlord if he disagrees. On the ideas you present that I do not agree with...you are free to present them yourself then, but you cannot expect my voice to support yours.”

The Hearthmatron stared at her darkly and rose her cup to her mouth again, nursing the last dregs of the night, “Is that all?”

Elain nodded her head slowly, “The only thing your plan does is save me time, with little else to lure me into putting forth so much effort to give someone else glory. However, what I am offering you is the only recourse you will have against a Warlord who has proven himself a war hero, has the loyalty of the hunters, the support of the Diceni’s Warlord, and has Wycome’s Guard answering to him. If you think his stunt with the watchtower was unsettling, you are in for a nasty surprise in the future.”

She said nothing, but her face had started to turn red from her nerves. Elain flashed her a wicked grin.

“I may not have been married as long as you, but I have been entrenched in politics since I got the vallaslin marked on my face. It was foolish of you to think I would not have already began to sink my claws into my husband’s back and steer him towards the path I want to take,” she bounced Heliwr lightly as he continued his whining, but she couldn’t find it in her to be agitated anymore. There was too much fun to be had in cornering her opponent. “You need my support more than I need yours, Hearthmatron, and it would be such a shame to see all your grand plans of prosperity fall to the wayside as you struggle to shout over the roar of a beast.”

Aricia stayed silent for a moment, looking down on the cedar table and tapping her fingernail on it nervously. She was obviously taken back by her proposal. Elain tried not to get too excited, but the warm sensation of a thrilling win creeped up in her throat and made her heart beat faster. 

“Clever, clever girl,” she finally spoke, and the words were as warm as the hearths she presided over. “It was unwise of me to reveal to you the depth of Revas’ influence...and the depth of the Council’s fears over him.”

“It was,” she agreed.

“I overestimated how desperate you would be to find support for your Mantle. Ah, well. Age does not always bring wisdom, I suppose,” she chuckled lightly. “However, it has brought me the knowledge that you never accept the first offer. Your terms are reasonable, but I need more out of it to make it worthwhile.”

“And what would you like?”

“Joint credit on ideas that are implemented. If I suggest a certain concept to grow the settlement, and you take it word for word, I want to work in tandem with you to have it established,” she suggested. “I know I will not get credit for everything though, in order to make this worthwhile on your end. So how about this...if you change any of my ideas dramatically before presenting them to the Council, then you may take all the credit for them. You will build your reputation with the clan, with the merchants, with the Marcher cities...and with our beloved Keeper. And then, I will still receive some prestige myself, even if it’s on your back. What do you say?”

“I say that I look forward to working more closely with you going forward, lethallan,” Elain smiled over her cup, then raised it in the air to toast. “To finding out who our opponents are.”

Aricia raised her cup and clinked it gently against hers with a grin.

“And to building a future with them.”

\---

Revas liked the marriage ceremony. It was quiet, and the wind was cool and the sky was gray, but the leaves were vibrant and beautiful and made Elain look all the more vibrant and beautiful. They took turns holding Heliwr as they exchanged their oaths and tied the flax rope around each other’s wrists, and at the end, Revas kissed his new wife and then his son, while the clan cheered on. His mother wept, his friends laughed with him and offered their congratulations, and even if the sun did decide to make an appearance, it could not have outshined the smile on Elain’s face.

It was the feast went on for far too long. Revas made the mistake of drinking too much, too early, and by the time food was finished and everyone celebrated with dancing and singing, he had had his fill of it. Too many voices, too many people pretending they weren’t afraid of him and offering congratulations. Too much loud laughing in his ear, too much food covered in grease, too much smoke filling the pavilion from the braziers. Just too much of everything, and not enough of what he actually wanted. 

It made it all the more sweet when he was able to say goodnight to his overly-tired son, hand him off to his mother for safekeeping, and finally get around to enjoying the night of his marriage. 

Elain had drawn his attention all night with the blood-red poppies she wore in her hair, the snow-white collar of rabbit fur that lined her cloak, and the radiant glow of her skin that seemed to light up everything around her. He nearly wanted to pinch himself to see if this was all some dream that he would wake from, and his relief was palpable when he assured himself it wasn’t. Watching her all night, waiting for the minute he could have her alone and express how much this all meant to him...it was nearly torture.

But it didn’t last forever. Eventually they couldn’t restrain themselves any longer, and they snuck out of the feast with all haste, Revas picking her up once they had cleared the pavilion and Elain wrapping her legs around his waist, happily allowing him to take her wherever he wanted to go. They fumbled into their yurt, not even making it to their bed, and it was hours later when Revas finally found time to catch his breath.

He fell asleep with Elain in his arms, exhausted, bruised, aching, spent, and utterly, utterly satiated. His night was dreamless, and it was the deepest he slept in a long while. With the victory of the watchtower, his son growing strong, the hunters flourishing under his command, and more promises of happiness on the horizon, having this with his wife was more than enough to heal his soul. He only hoped that her flushed cheeks and beautiful little sighs meant that she was happy too.

It was before dawn when he woke, and the bed was cold without her in it. The whole yurt was cold, in fact, and he saw that Elain was standing before the entrance, and she stared out into the darkness outside with the wicker hanging pulled back. The tapestries and diaphanous linen that hung from the yurt’s walls blew gently in the chilly wind that found its way inside, and it made her seem as if she was some spirit haunting his dreams. 

Revas climbed out of the bed and walked towards her, careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t want to interrupt her thoughts, but he was less for not having her with him. He needed to rectify that.

She gave a startled gasp when he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, but it turned into a gentle sigh when he kissed the back of her neck tenderly. 

“It’s early,” she said quietly. “You should go back to sleep.”

“It’s too cold to sleep,” he murmured into her skin. 

“There are furs on the bed to warm yourself up with,” she pointed out, and he moved his mouth to the side of her neck.

“It’s not as warm as you,” he slid his hands up her body, over her stomach, slipping one inside the gap in her robes. Once inside, he cupped her breast roughly, feeling the full weight of it in his palm, and she rolled her head back, laying it against his shoulder at the motion.

“Did you enjoy the ceremony yesterday? Aricia went out of her way to make it pleasant, I think,” she asked him. He squeezed her breast harder and pressed his mouth against her ear.

“I don’t care about Aricia,” he said hoarsely. 

“What about Kellen? You seemed to have a long conversation with him last night,” she teased him. He knew her game, though. With his free hand, he brought down the wicker hanging for the entrance of the yurt, giving them some privacy.

“Don’t care about him either,” he tugged on her nipple roughly, earning him a gasp. She was trying to be coy, but Revas wasn’t in the mood to play the game this morning. 

“Is there anyone you care about then?” she pressed him.

“Only you, Peach.”

He turned her around to face him, then slid his fingers under the fabric of her robe on her shoulders, slipping it down her arms slowly. The robe fell down and gathered at her waist, leaving her upper body exposed to him. It was a glorious sight to see. His breath caught in his throat, and he wondered if maybe this _was_ all a dream. 

But Elain sighed at the gesture and seemed to all at once close herself up. She brought her hands to her arms and hugged them to her body tightly. 

He tilted his head in concern, “What’s wrong?”

“You should start caring about the Council and politics here,” she started, her voice already sounding defeated. “It will do us no good to burn bridges now.”

He grasped her upper arms gently, “I’m not burning bridges. I’m trying to get you in bed with me.”

With that, she gave a laugh, but it sounded pained. Her face reflected that pain too, and his concern swiftly grew into worry. 

“What’s going on, El? Talk to me.”

She shrugged his hands off her and walked away from the entrance of the yurt, but then began to slowly pace around the hearth in the center of the room. Something was troubling her, and they needed to get to the bottom of it so he could help.

“Our options are limited now, you know. Being married in front of the clan has erased any possibility of us attributing our broken oaths to a mistake,” she started, her voice low and ominous. “We’ve made it clear that we won’t be ending this.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he slowly walked towards her, watching her face carefully. “Besides, I thought Heliwr pretty much killed that.”

“There was always the option that we could call him a mistake too. An accident. It would not be a lie,” she admitted. “I could’ve dismissed you as my Banal’ras, given you full custody of our son, asked for a pardon for you to the High Council , then offered up my sincere apologies and requested to re-take my oaths. Life would have gone on as normal, with the exception of us breaking off what we have.”

He felt like he had been struck in the face.

“And that’s what you want? To call everything between us _a mistake_ and cut me out of your life?” he asked in disbelief.

She stopped her pacing and looked up at him, “Not at all. I don’t even think I’d be able to stay away even if I did. I’d miss you terribly, Revas. My heart would break every time I saw you, if I knew I would never be able to have this with you again.”

His brows creased together as he struggled to understand, “Where are you going with all of this? Are you regretting doing this?”

Elain looked on him know with a sad longing, and he was afraid it meant the answer was _yes._

“I regret dragging you into this, but I do not regret choosing you. The ceremony should be proof enough that you’re more important than anything else to me,” she explained. “But my broken oaths are your problem too, and now we’ve committed ourselves to each other. The High Council will not see anything else but my refusal to let you go. I will lose my Mantle.”

“And you’re worried that it was the wrong choice,” he accused her, already sick of this conversation. “You’re worried that you’ve given up the Mantle for nothing.”

“I worry that my choices will hurt you. Or Heliwr. Is that so wrong?”

“This isn’t about me or Heliwr, and you know it,” he snapped at her. Revas was tired of her misdirected self-pity. “You’re feeling sorry for yourself, because you don’t know what’s going to happen. And you hate that. You hate when you can’t control everything around you..”

“Yes,” she affirmed softly. He pressed his lips together tightly to try to suppress the anger rising up in him. “I do feel sorry for myself. I also hate not having control over this. But my concern for you isn’t a figment of my bruised ego, Revas. I remember what happened to the Banal’ras of the previous Last Breath. I do not look forward to seeing if the same fate befalls you.”

“I’m not going to be executed,” he stated firmly, but already felt his anger dissolving away. “I didn’t kill anyone to cover this up.”

Elain sighed deeply, “I know. Forgive me. My mind is a tumultuous mess, and it’s all becoming very clear that there is no way forward without accepting that I will lose my title. It’s a difficult thing for me.”

“You’re still Elain without it,” he reminded her, “and I’ll still love you without the Mantle on your shoulders.”

She chuckled softly, “You’ll probably love me more. No pesky titles to give me any authority and get in the way of your plans!”

Revas found it in him to smile at that, then reached out and pulled away a stray lock of hair that had fallen over her face, but said nothing more. For his effort, she closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand, sighing as she did. She was frightened, and he couldn’t truly hold that against her. The Mantle is all she’s ever known, all she’s ever fought for. She was facing an unknown future, and it he could not lie to himself and say it didn’t make him nervous as well. 

Elain was right: they were committed to each other now. The outcome would affect them both.

But as she stood before him, he became painfully aware again that her torso lay uncovered and exposed, and the tie closing her robe at her waist clung to her hips by the barest tension. It was difficult to focus on the problems of tomorrow when the joy of today was within his grasp. And why shouldn’t he take that time to enjoy it? If their time was indeed short, if their future was so unknown, shouldn’t they embrace whatever moment they can have together? 

With that thought, he reached out and gave the tie a slight tug, and it fell open, making the robe float down to the floor. 

Elain stood rigidly still at the motion, but didn’t discourage him. He vowed that he would take his time and help her distract her mind from the worries plaguing her now. Revas let his fingertips explore her skin, taking in every sensation that came along with that touch. Her hitched breath, the shiver his questing produced, the flush of pink that crept into her cheeks. He leaned in and placed soft, tender kisses on her neck, while still letting his fingers run up and down the length of her back.

Her neck went tense at the motions though, and with great reluctance, she stopped him, “There’s something else we need to talk about. Something that’s haunting me. Something that only makes matters worse.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, but resumed his work right after. She slid her hand under his chin and pulled his face away from her neck, forcing him to look at her.

“It can’t wait until tomorrow,” she said with certainty. 

He shook his head and drew her against him tightly, “Unless it’s a matter of life and death, it can wait until tomorrow. I _want_ you so badly.”

“Revas...we’re going to have another child.”

His stomach seemed to drop out from under him. In a thousand years, he wouldn’t have expected that to be what came out of her mouth.

“What?” he could barely form the words. “Are you sure?”

She nodded slowly, “Yes.”

“How did this happen?”

“The witherstalk was stopping me from producing enough milk. Nellia gave me an acacia tincture to use instead,” she explained, then sighed. “It wasn’t as effective.”

“How far along?”

“Eight weeks,” she said softly. “The baby will be here shortly after Heliwr’s birthday.”

Revas didn’t know what else to say in the moment. This wasn’t planned, nor was it something he even entertained the thought of. The assumption was that Heliwr was all they would have, and he’d be their entire world. He didn’t dare expect anything else. It would be wrong of him to put that on Elain. 

Now it was forced on the both of them, and the difficulties they were bound to face would only increase. It was daunting, and nerve wracking, and somehow, even elation. He didn’t know how to process it all.

“We’re going to have another baby,” he said under his breath in disbelief. “Us. I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said lowly, her gaze falling to the ground. “I’ve ruined the moments we were supposed to spend welcoming our new life together; and worse, I’ve complicated something already far too intricate to untangle with simple politicking.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You tried to find a solution,” he started, but then frowned. “You could’ve told me. We could’ve done more to prevent this.”

“It’s too late now. There’s no use worrying over what we could have done,” she lamented. “Our energy will need to go towards how we will protect our family. I am a terrible mother, but I will not let my children suffer because of my foolishness.”

“You’re not foolish. Or terrible…”

She pressed her fingertips against his mouth to silence him, “I know my limits, Revas. I have no patience for Heliwr’s neediness, or his incessant whining, or his need of constant care. I am trying my best, but motherhood was not a role I was meant for. For some of us, it comes naturally. For those like me, it just doesn’t come.”

“I’ve accepted that, but knowing that there will be two of them now...it frightens me. I feel as if I have just only finished carrying Heliwr, and now I will carry another. I will go through that dreadful pain again, I will be exhausted again, I will feel trapped in my own body again. My bones will creak, my back will ache, my stomach will shun food and I will be sick for it. And then, I will expel another child from my body, and feel that child’s rejection, just as I felt Heliwr’s.”

“Elain…”

“It’s a terrible burden to bear, knowing that you are giving up everything for something that can never appreciate it in return. My children will be raised Dalish, know only the love of the clan and the community, and they will never understand what I have sacrificed for them to have it,” she continued on sadly. “I will lose my power, my authority, and perhaps even my life...but they will want for nothing. And neither will you. I will make sure that the High Council will allow you your life and prosperity, so that you may provide the same for the children.”

“And I can live with that. I can live with not forsaking you so I can keep my Mantle. I can live with letting you have your happiness instead of only focusing on my ambition. I will sleep well in exile knowing that I am a terrible mother, but that my mistakes will not cause undue suffering to my children,” Elain stopped, then looked up at him meaningfully. “It will just be up to you to make sure what I’m giving up will mean something.”

“That’s what this was all about? You’ve already made up your mind about what will happen?” he pressed her.

“I’ve made up my mind about what I will do to lessen the impact of my transgressions,” she replied. “I will build you up to be an integral part of the clan; where losing you would mean losing a limb to them. That way, you are safe, and in that safety, you can make sure our children are safe as well.”

“And what about you?” 

She shrugged, “I will do my best to make myself indispensable as well. The Keeper has aided in that greatly, but tradition is a difficult thing to overcome. Should the worst come to pass, I need assurances that you will be left to work unhindered. I will get those from our clan, from our allies in Wycome, from our contracts with merchants, from all the progress we make here. You will have a life, and I will have a legacy, no matter what the final decision may be.”

It felt as if the ground beneath him would swallow him up if he allowed it. The reality of what was happening settled in his gut like a stone, and he knew why Elain woke and pondered the future in that melancholic cold of the morning. She did not expect to be part of what she was making here for very long. She had already resigned herself to the worst possible outcome, and in her defeat, wanted to make sure his future --and their children’s future-- were not sullied for it. 

His legs felt shaky under the weight of knowing that, and with careful ease, he lowered himself to his knees in front of her. Once there, he kissed her abdomen gently, knowing the life that was harbored therein now, then laid his head against her with a sigh.

“You can’t make this decision alone,” he whispered. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life without you.”

Elain laid an understanding hand atop his head, “It’s not my decision to make, ma lath. I must abide by what the High Council says.”

“Why?” he wrapped his arms around her waist. “You can just stay here...with me.”

“Perhaps that will be an option,” she said softly, gently. Her voice was just as beautiful as the voice of a goddess to him, and in that moment, he would gladly follow her will. “It will be an effort on both our parts to change the tide, though. You must be more cooperative with the Council, and you must be more willing to make concessions. Intimidating them with the hunters is doing us no good.”

He listened to her, took in her suggestion, but thought it insufficient. It was silly to depend on the will of people whose opinions changed with the seasons. A year from now, when the HIgh Council convened, they may find better prospects in throwing Elain under the aravel wheels than raising their voices for her. He didn’t trust them, and it disturbed him that she put any faith in them helping her. She had spent too much time trying to use political means to see her goals realized, that she didn’t see all the daggers pointed at her back.

But he did not want to scare her more than she already was. She needed his support, not his doubts.

“Whatever it takes,” he promised her. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this.”

“I know you will.”

It wasn’t just enough to say it though, and with the need that brewing in him since he opened his eyes, Revas stood up from the floor, lifting her up with him by her waist. She gave a surprised gasp, but quickly adjusted, leaning her arms onto his shoulders to balance herself. He carried her back to their bed, laid her down gently, then crawled in the furs with her as she beckoned him with an outreached hand. 

He expressed his commitment wordlessly, and she reacted gratefully, then showered him with her own little worships. It was agonizingly slow for both of them, slow drip of water on rock instead of a rush of a river, but it was what they needed. To be close, to be tender, to comfort each other in the best way they knew how. Their words were still new, birds emerging from fragile eggshells, but this...this was as old as them. As sturdy as the stone of the Vimmarks. They whispered their love into each others mouths, they said _I love you_ until they had no breath to spare, and then, again and again.

At last, after the sun rose, Elain drifted off into a deep slumber, her head nestled in his neck, her breathing steady and and quiet. But now it was Revas who couldn’t find sleep, and he started at the ceiling of their yurt in deep contemplation. He thought of the past, of the future, of promised made and promises kept. The autumn sun peeked through the yurt’s vent in a fiery blaze, red and stark against the dull yellow that seemed to fill their room now. The blaze of the All Father, looking down on him and his new wife as she slept in peace. 

He pointed his finger in the air towards the circular disc of light, tracing the beams that shone through the fabric of the ceiling, and mumbled words of a prayer under his breath. The language was dead on his lips though, his mind knowing that his heart couldn’t find solace in such things. There was no Creator to come save him from his house of troubles, no savior to ride in on a white mount and a flaming sword. 

No, those were things he would have to do himself.

Revas closed his eyes then and began to count. _Sorn. Twig. Arthwyn. Gendryn. Ariberis. Pilari._ He counted the names of all his hunters, then tried to count the names of the recruits from Wycome that would be arriving soon. _Ten heads. Twenty. Ninety. Three hundred_. The Silures could be brought into the fray as well. _Four hundred._ With coaxing, they could absorb Clan Uther’nal. _Six hundred forty._

He plotted and scraped the bottom of every barrel for the resources he could call upon. Hunters who could hold a weapon in their hand, and those he could inspire loyalty in. The number was not large yet, but he had no doubt he could make it larger. Antivan clans needed protection, after all. _Twelve hundred._ Revas could not trust anyone but himself to do this. The Council were not his friends. 

Turning his head towards Elain, he watched her sleep and plotted even more. No, no Council to depend on to protect her. What could a handful of elves do, after all? Power didn’t come from words of goodwill. Every hunter who called Andruil knew where power was born…in the womb of the Mother of Hares. Through Blood and Force. 

No, it was not a Council that Revas needed. Not a group of fickle politicians who could be bought for the highest political capital. He did not need their wavering loyalty to save his wife.

What the Warlord needed was an _army_. 


	62. Intermission: Mother, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corypheus is defeated, but Sar'een struggles with the truth she learned on her journey.

_“And what does Mythal do for the People?”_

_“She watches over us as Mother. She protects us,” Sar’een answered her hahren proudly, her grin full of missing teeth still growing in._

_Paeris nodded warmly, “Yes, Little Dove. She is the Protector. Mother of the Hive and soother of Elgar’nan’s Rage. But, remember what we discussed about the duality of our Creators?”_

_“Yes. They are Life and Death,” she answered gravely, then stopped herself and thought for a moment. “But not all of them. Some of them aren’t.”_

_“And which ones aren’t?” he pressed her. Paeris waited for her answer patiently as they sat on rock near the big lake at the edge of the campgrounds. Sar’een liked the lake. It reflected the mountains on the water, like a mirror. It was as pretty as a dream, and she wondered: if she swam in the water, would she be able to feel the mountains?_

_“Um…” she bit her lip as she pondered her answer. “Dirthamen isn’t Life or Death, and Sylaise is both. Just like in the song.”_

_Paeris pulled out a pouch on his belt and reached inside, “That’s correct. And you remember the song, very good.” He paused, taking out a small bone figurine from the pouch. “But, that is a very simple way to view things, isn’t it? If Mother Mythal is Life, then She is good and pure, yes?”_

_Sar’een nodded._

_“No,” he corrected her, then placed the bone figurine in her hand. It was smooth from wear, and the face on the likeness of a person carved was gone away. But Sar’een recognized the symbol of ‘_ Thal’ _, the Old word for ‘_ moon’ _. It was Mythal._

_“Is your mother always kind, Sar’een?” he asked her as she rolled the figurine in her fingers._

_“No. Sometimes she won’t let me play with the other children and makes me stay in the yurt.”_

_“Is your mother always pure?” he asked another strange question. Sar’een didn’t like it. Her mamae would warn her of how speaking ill of your parents is sinful._

_“I suppose,” she answered truthfully. Her mamae was so sure of what was sinful. She must be pure._

_Paeris pulled another figurine from his pouch and handed it to her, “Are you sure?”_

_This one was Falon’din. She could tell by His Crook that He used to lead the Dead into the Beyond._

_“I think so,” she said absently. The two tiny statues hopped in her hands, and she made their little faces bump into each other. Life and Death, kissing mouths._

_“What does it mean to be pure, Little Dove?”_

_She looked up at him, “It means to be faithful and not sin against the Creators.”_

_“And how do you know what the Creators consider a sin?”_

_Sar’een shrugged and went back to playing with her bone figurines, “Because you tell us the stories about the Old Empire and what the Creators are like.”_

_“Yes, I do,” he agreed, “but that does not allow us to know what the Creators look down upon, does it? How can we know Their Will if we cannot speak directly to Them?”_

_“I don’t know,” she said as she let her figurines walk along her knee. The wind began to pick up, and the night was approaching. The sky was already turning purple and pink from dusk. Her hahren would take her back soon so they could eat._

_“And neither do I, Little Dove. None of us do. We can only make the best guesses possible, and we do that by asking questions,” he explained gently. “If Mythal is the Mother, can’t we look at our mothers to see who She is? What She wants of us?”_

_“Can we?” Sar’een made her little Mythal fall into the dirt and then stand back up proudly. A battle won against the mountain of her knee._

_“I asked you.”_

_Little Falon’din did not fall from the knee mountain, but rather, he jumped. There were souls in the dirt He needed to lead home, “Maybe. Not all mothers are kind and pure though.”_

_“Then why should we expect Mythal to be?” he pressed her, then leaned over and handed her another figure. This one was like the first one: all smooth and hard to figure out. It had a sun crown though, and only Elgar’nan wore a crown._

_“Because She’s a goddess,” Sar’een responded quickly. Elgar’nan joined the dirt with the other two, stomping about and kicking up dust with His smooth little feet._

_“Being a goddess does not assume perfection, da’len. Even our Creators faltered. What of Sylaise letting Her Love grow so strong, it erupted from the earth? What of Andruil being tricked by the Dread Wolf into being wounded? What of Elgar’nan casting away His Father, the Sun, and bringing unending darkness upon the world?”_

_“But Mythal only does good things,” she argued with him as she continued to play._

_“We only remember good stories, but Mythal is a mother, and mothers are many things; they are kind, but they are also cruel; they are pure at heart, but they are also wicked in thought; they are protective of their children, but they are also the most judgmental of them; they are figures of trust and justice in their homes, but their decisions are not always right. Mythal is all of these things, and more.”_

_The moon began to rise in the sky, and the wind blew even harder, making the great lake’s waves lap against its shore. Paeris stood up from his seat and held out a hand to her to help her up. She took it, then tried to hand him back the little bone figurines he let her play with during stories, but this time, he shook his head._

_“Keep them for now, da’len. I want you to start to think about who the Creators are beyond what the stories say,” he asked of her. “You need to look at everything critically…even the gods.”_

_“Will the gods like that?” she asked him as he held her hand to guide her back to camp._

_Paeris laughed and swung her arm playfully, making her giggle too._

_“No, Little Dove. They will not.”_

_\---_

The moonrise over the Frostbacks looked larger than any in the Vimmarks. The Frostbacks were so much larger, desolate, imposing. They were the Teeth of the Dragon, the Spine of the Maker, the Living Earth, and other endless titles and names. To Sar’een, they were simply a fortress she was trapped in, with the yellow light of the waning moon beckoning her to escape.

She leaned over her balcony at Skyhold to watch it in peace as the rest of the Inquisition celebrated their grand victory over the false god. The smell of food and drinks and the sound of happy, elated voices were merely murmurs in her private quarters, and she was glad for it. Her heart was not in celebrating. The destruction that Corypheus brought on the world was devastating, and the events he set in motion that changed her into who she was were devastating as well. 

Sar’een had thought she’d feel relief --maybe even joy-- when she finally ended his horrific unlife. She believed that when the ruins of Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes were finally free of the last vestiges of his influence, there would be a sense of accomplishment. But when she tore apart his desiccated body and burned him to the farthest reaches of the Void, she saw nothing but the aftermath. A ruined crater where a bustling city once stood. An approaching winter storm that would cover all the damage caused by sheets of white snow. Broken remnants of what once was sticking out of ice and mud like an old bone. 

There was no relief there. Only a reminder of the death that had paid for a defeat. And when the mark on her hand still stayed, even after the foci was destroyed, a dawning realization that Sar’een herself was forever burdened with what this magic had cost the world.

Her thoughts were drawn from the moon rising over the Frostbacks and to a gentle knock on the great wooden doors leading to her chambers.

“May I come in?” a voice came from the other side. 

“Yes,” Sar’een called out and turned away from the horizon and onto Merrill entering the room. It was getting too cold to stand outside in any case. She closed the elaborate glass doors leading to the balcony and gestured for her friend to make herself comfortable. 

Merrill smiled and sat down on the velvet couch near her desk, “You're missing the party! Sera slipped under one of the tables and kept using a ham as a puppet!”

Sar’een laughed and sat down in a chair across from her friend, “Sounds like her.”

“Varric also spoke to me about going back to Kirkwall,” she said quietly. “I think he misses it. The Herald’s Rest is no Hanged Man. Far less sticky.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “He told me he wanted to return. I’ll be sad to see him go but…” Merrill looked on her expectantly, but all she could do was sigh, “But everyone will be leaving soon. The threat of Corypheus is over, so there’s no need to stay. They all have their own lives to return to.”

“What about you? What about your life? Surely it can’t be these cold walls?” she asked Sar’een. “I know it’s Elvhen, but it feels dark. Like the eluvian my clan found. Just a shadow of what it once was.”

“I’ll stay,” she answered firmly. “There’s a lot of reconstruction to do in the south, red lyrium that must be cleaned out, rifts that still need dealt with…”

“And elves that still need assurances,” Merrill finished for her. “You won’t give up on our people.”

Sar’een shook her head slowly, “No. Not while I still have authority in my position. I must do what I can, while I can. The Inquisition will slowly fade into nothing, and I must squeeze every last bit of use out of it.”

Merrill looked at her in worry, her brows furrowed and lips pursed, “You don’t need to be in this dead place to do it.”

“It’s not _dead_ ; it’s just old.”

She drew her hands to her shoulders and brought her feet from off the stone floor to the couch, “It feels dead. It’s like we’ve moved into a corpse of the Old Empire and are dragging our muddy feet inside of it.”

Sar’een looked up at the impossibly high rafters of her chambers’ ceiling, “If it was dead, we built something new out of the bones. Something that helped destroy something else that set out to destroy us.”

Merrill sat very still at the remark, as if she was pondering the truth of it. 

“It’s an odd thing, really,” she started, looking down on her feet propped up on the velvet cushion of the couch. “Corypheus is dead and the world is safer for it. But it doesn’t feel like the end. I saw him die once before…”

“There’s nothing left of him, falon,” Sar’een tried to assure her, but Merrill shook her head.

“I know that. We didn’t know about his ability to live inside tainted creatures. You did. You killed him,” she explained. “But it still doesn’t feel like something has ended. We stay in this place that feels dead too, but here it is...still haunting Thedas. There is no real ending. There’s only vessels to hold the things older than us until they find another place to haunt.”

It dawned on Sar’een what she was speaking of, and her heart fell at the thought of finally having to confront it.

“This isn’t about Skyhold...it’s about Mythal.”

Merrill looked up at her once more, her wide eyes full of fear and hesitation at giving voice to both of their doubts, but she nodded her head. 

“It’s both, really. They’re all connected, right?” she asked her earnestly. Sar’een shrugged. 

“I don’t know.”

“They are,” Merrill answered own own question solemnly. “The Keepers always told us that all these old buildings and temples from the Empire were the height of Elvhenan. That this is the cost of all that we have lost. But it’s still here, isn’t it? It was always here. We just didn’t see it for what it was.”

Sar’een’s bounced her foot on the floor nervously, “She could have been lying. Humans lie a lot.”

“The clans in Ferelden call her _Asha’bellanar_. The Old Woman. She was a witch who seemed to live eternally and flitted in and out of our legends as she saw fit,” Merrill intoned dully. “My old Keeper, Marethari, sought out her help once. She told me of how Sabrae used to have hunting grounds in the Frostbacks, but they were attacked by Avvar. The Avvar killed her Keeper, her betrothed, her whole family. Sabrae suffered greatly, and Marethari wanted revenge for the injustice done to her people. She took the survivors and traveled to an old shrine to Mythal and begged the goddess to help her deliver vengeance to those who wronged Sabrae. She told me that the All Mother did not answer, but Asha’bellanar found her instead. She granted Marethari a boon in return for her loyalty, and my Keeper accepted it. She did not tell me what the boon was, but when she returned to the Frostbacks, no Avvar who hurt her was left standing.”

Sar’een said nothing, but looked on her friend in rapt attention. All the clans remembered Asha’bellanar, but she had never heard this story.

“Whatever Asha’bellanar gave Marethari was very powerful. It gave a small group of survivors the means to destroy an entire Avvar tribe. I grew up on stories of the deference we should show for her, and then...then I met her.”

“You met her?” she repeated. Sar’een had not taken Merrill with her to that grove with Morrigan. She had wanted her to secure Morrigan’s eluvian instead. 

“Hawke came to our clan to repay a favor Asha’bellanar granted him. It was the first time we met,” Merrill gave a small smile at that. “Keeper Marethari told me to take the trinket Hawke would have to the resting place at the top of Sundermount and give it the words of departure into Uthenera. I did what she asked.”

“She appeared after I finished the rite, like she had come out of smoke. I was frightened and bowed,” she went on. “What else could I have done? Everyone in Clan Sabrae knows to treat her with respect, lest you end up in itty bitty pieces. But Asha’bellanar made me rise. She told me the People bend the knee too easily.”

“Oh.”

Merrill nodded, “She was judging me. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. And she found me lacking, just like everyone else. Me…”

Tears began to fill her eyes, and Sar’een reached out and grabbed onto her friend’s hand.

“I worked all my life to be the Keeper. It was my job to remember. It was my job to uphold the People. It was my job to show what it meant to be Dalish, the last of the Elvhenan. I lost everything because I would not let it go. And it was all for nothing,” tears rolled down Merrill’s cheeks. “Mythal judged me and saw me for the fool that I am.”

“You’re not a fool,” she interrupted softly, but Merrill shook her head. 

“I am. I was foolish to think that preserving our culture meant anything. I was foolish to think that I could do it alone. And I was foolish to believe every story I had heard,” she confessed bitterly. “Asha’bellanar is Mythal and Mythal is a fickle, deranged human who follows the whims she sees in bones and blood. Everything I’ve thought and believed was wrong, and the truth was right in front of me the whole time. I was just too blind to see it.”

Sar’een moved next to her on the velvet couch and pulled her into her arms, “Shhh, shhh. It’s alright. You couldn’t have known.”

“How could any of us have known Mythal walked this world? And that She is a human?” she sobbed. “No one would know any better except...except the Keepers of the lost lore. We should’ve known. We should’ve realized what she was.”

“We only do what we can based on what we can discern. All our most ancient stories and temples said the Creators were locked away by the Dread Wolf,” Sar’een consoled her. “We believed what our predecessors told us. We believed what our ancestors wrote on walls of stone. We believed that the gods were betrayed, and we believed that they could only reach out through magic lost to us. We did what we could with what we had. You are not a fool, and everything you did meant something, even if Mythal wasn’t what we expected.”

“I know but…” Merrill paused, then wiped her eyes with her closed hands in an attempt to compose herself. Her face was still stained with the grief of knowledge though. It hurt Sar’een’s heart to see it. “How much more have we been wrong about? What other gods are living here with us? Watching us, judging us?”

“I doubt there are other gods living among us,” she tried to assure her, though Sar’een didn’t know if she believed her own words. “If there were, they probably care as much as Mythal.”

“That’s the worst part of it, really,” Merrill breathed out in defeat. “Our people have suffered so much, and she just let it happen. She was supposed to be the Mother of us all, but she only helps when it helps her. I can’t bear it.”

Sar’een cradled her friend as best she could, but some wounds couldn’t be comforted. Some things shook the very understanding of the world under their feet and crumbled the foundation they had grown accustomed to. Only time could heal this. Time and patience.

“Mothers are not always good, Merrill. Some of them are cruel and neglectful. Some demand things from their children that no mother should demand. Some lie and hurt the people they’re supposed to love. There are many types of mothers, and some of them are better staying away from their children, lest they do even more damage.”

“And you think that’s why she stayed away? Why she chose to be a human?” she asked her pitifully but didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s hard to face that we aren’t loved by our gods.”

“Yes.” 

It was all Sar’een could say. There was simply no other answer that would not be a lie told to placate her friend, and she had no use for lies anymore. Especially ones that only gave excuses to the powerful beings that were supposed to protect them.

They were not loved, or even considered. And Merrill was not the only one emptier for it.

\---

Merrill left her alone a few hours later, exhausted from her weeping and her disillusion, and Sar’een bid her farewell with a warm hug and kiss on her cheek. It had been selfish to ask Merrill to come with her, and now, she had to face the consequences in her desperation. The hollowness of finding out everything they believed was a lie had to be shared now, instead of a burden only she must carry. 

And she wouldn’t have wished it on anyone.

The Great Hall was empty of all its inhabitants in the late hour, the celebration of the Inquisitor’s victory long over. The smell of food and smoke lingered in the air, but now it was more distant, colder. A memory still painted on stone but chipping around the edges. Eventually the tales of this night would fade into the annals of history too. 

Sar’een walked the hall alone. She pushed open the door to the outer gardens alone. She stepped out into the freezing night air alone and strode across the frost-licked grass sprawling over the grounds alone. She approached the tiny Chantry chapel that had been erected for the believers alone, and she sat on the cold stone base of the statue of Andraste….alone. 

As she looked out over the courtyard, she let the events of the last year and a half roll over her like a wave. All this working and planning and plotting...it was over now. The tide had come in, washing her ashore, then receded back into the great, salty expanse of the void. Sar’een was left stranded, choking on the salt still filling her lungs, utterly alone but for the silence of the late hour.

Snow started to fall in that courtyard. Large, fluffy flakes that would surely turn into a bitter, icy storm. The winter had nearly arrived at the Frostbacks, but in Sar’een’s soul, it was already there. 

“Corypheus was a pretender,” she said aloud suddenly, but there was no one there to answer. “He thought his power made him a god. It did not. I killed him. More than killed him, really. I forced myself inside of him and ripped his soul asunder. I have never committed such a violent act in my life, but the power of this mark coursed through me, encouraging me, tempting me to use it to its fullest extent. So I did.”

She wiped the snow that blew in and clung to her eyelashes, “And I understood why he would want that power so much. It felt like...life. It felt like creation itself enfolding me, holding me like a mother holds a child. Whatever pain there was before was forgotten. It cracked and split my skin, but it did not hurt anymore. So I embraced it. I held that power in my hand, but not with love and care. I harnessed that rawness, that surge of strength, and I forced it on the desiccated body of Corypheus. I felt him being pulled into the nothing from the very fabric of my existence.”

Sar’een looked up at the dark night made darker by the incoming storm clouds, “For a moment, I knew why he had fought so hard to get the anchor back. I knew why he fought so hard to walk into the Fade. This power….”

She brought her hand up to her face and watched it glow green in the dark night, “It’s the kind of power a god would hold. The kind they would covet. The kind that could build the world up or tear it down. And for a single moment, I understood. But now I’m here...alive and mortal, and still holding this power in my hand. It did not leave me when I tore Corypheus’ life from him. And now I don’t know if it will ever leave.”

Sar’een turned her head around suddenly and gazed up at the statue of Andraste looking down on her benevolently.

“Your Maker was a lie, Andraste,” she stated forcefully. “Your god is a lie. My gods are a lie. All the gods that have ever been and ever will be are a lie. Count your blessings that you did not have to face it before you closed your eyes for the last time on the pyre.”

She trembled as she faced forward again and set her head against the stone body of the Prophetess. 

“How lucky you were to never have to meet your Maker. How lucky you were to die knowing he loved you. My Mother is cruel, and has left her people alone in this world to fend for ourselves. When I heard her voice and looked in her eyes, I did not see the divine. I saw only a Mother who could not and would not hold out her hand to the children who begged her with their prayers and their lives. Truly, you were blessed to never have to have your world shattered that way.”

Sar’een stood up, but did not leave yet. In truth, she did not know why she had even come in the first place. Only that she was here, and the words would find their way onto the wind. 

“The gods never cared about anything but themselves...and now I carry the power of one in my hand. I wonder if I will stop caring?” she mused to herself. “My heart has already hardened, became tempered like steel and sharpened to a fine point. Will it finally pierce the world when I can’t find it in my soul to see anymore suffering?”

Andraste did not answer, of course. Sar’een already knew she would not. The gods did not answer unless they willed it. Why would a mere prophetess be any different?

She sighed, knowing the answer, knowing all the answers. This burden would not leave her, but in her deepest thoughts, she knew she could not hold it either. Even the mighty Asha’bellanar herself could not hold it before it would eat the vessel that carried it. 

The hour was late, and Sar’een wanted to sleep. To finally sleep. Deeply and undisturbed, with no immediate catastrophe to awake her from dreams. Her bed was warm, and the Fade had called her for too long. As she walked away, she only felt it right that she made her peace with the prophetess, even if she could not answer. Even if she could not erase all that Sar’een had learned.

“I envy your ignorance of the deity you spoke to. I envy that you never learned that you were a bride of a false god.”

She sighed deeply and hugged her cloak tighter to her as she crossed the courtyard.

“And I envy your place on the pyre. Death is the only true mercy in this world.”

\---

“Grain for the winter is plentiful. With a large amount of our troops disbanded and sent to serve the new Divine, there will be less mouths to feed.”

“Yes,” Sar’een held her chin as she pondered the figures Josephine had handed to her to review. They sat in her office, waiting out the storm until she could be off again to stabilize areas of Ferelden that still saw demons regularly. 

“The head cook in the kitchens says there’s a shortage of salt for preservation though. It’s easy enough to acquire, but the matter of where we spend our wealth is going to become more urgent as time passes,” Josephine explained. “Most noble houses in Orlais will throw their favors towards the Emperor or the Divine. Unfortunately, the downside to saving the world is no one thinks they need us anymore.”

“Do they?” she asked absently as she glanced over the proposed coin expenditures for the season. “Corypheus is dead and the south is slowly stabilizing itself. We only stepped in because no one else would. What more is there for us to do?”

Josephine wrinkled up her nose and looked down on her own parchment she was scribbling away on, “We have our part in stabilization as well, Inquisitor. Areas where rifts still trouble the locals, rebuilding efforts that need oversight, shortages of supplies that can be remedied from our abundance...whether or not the nobility is still interested in backing our interests matters little to those who have nothing.”

Sar’een sighed and rolled up the report in front of her, “True enough. There’s still Wycome out there, as well. If the Inquisition disbanded and moved on right away, there’s no guarantee that the Union will be able to operate without the Free Army attempting to take the city again.”

“You’re right,” Josephine acknowledged, though she did not look up from the missive she wrote. “I’ll send to some of my contacts in Antiva and see what can be done about making connections with the Union. It will be more difficult to disband the Union if Antivan merchant houses are working with them.”

She glanced up at her, “Thank you. That will be helpful.”

Josephine flashed a small smile, “No need to thank me, Inquisitor. As your ambassador, it is my duty to strengthen diplomatic ties and keep everyone under our wing protected.”

“And you do beautiful work,” Sar’een returned her smile. “Yes, please send to your contacts in Antiva. And see what you can do about acquiring the salt our head cook requested. Maybe you can trade off some of our excess grain?”

Her smile grew wider, “I’ve already partitioned a quarter of our excess stores. They are being sent to the Lavellan settlement. In return, they’ve negotiated for some of the salt requested to be provided by Wycome’s salterns outside of the city and a large surplus of cedar from Autini for rebuilding efforts in Orlais. Your _northern ambassador_ is surprisingly efficient.”

To that, Sar’een gave a chuckle, “Almost to a fault, I’d say, but I can’t complain. Having good people around me is the only thing that has held this entire thing together. Smart, competent, talented people...including you.”

Josephine’s smile turned to a full on grin, and her cheeks reddened in a blush, “I guess that was the difference between us and Corypheus, hmm? Good people always win out.”

“Not always,” she replied. “We can never forget what happened in Haven. At Adamant. Losses are an unfortunate reality of victory.”

“I cannot forget, even when I try. I still see their faces in my nightmares, along with the smoke and ash,” Josephine sobered immediately at her words. “Their sacrifices have not been in vain, and their names will not be forgotten. Casualties of war are unavoidable, but once the war is over, we can strive to do better to bring lasting peace.”

“And that’s why I’m waiting out a snowstorm in your office, going over the drudgery of planning before setting out again to clean up the mess left behind?”

“Exactly so,” she confirmed. “Peace comes at a price. We can never stop working, even if the world doesn’t think it needs us. Luckily for you, the drudgery after a victory has a lot less blood shed.”

“Lucky me indeed,” she mumbled under her breath and went back to reviewing reports. 

It would be pointless to rain over Josephine’s views on peace, even if they were an illusion. As long as humans were satisfied with the results, no other concerns graced their minds. The Eluvian network was still in danger, the Lavellan settlement was still in danger, all the elves ruling Wycome were in danger, and elves leaving alienages in the Free Marches to make the trip to a better life under Sal’s watchful eye were in danger. Although Josephine herself was more empathetic and observant than most other humans, even she couldn’t fully understand how fragile the situation was.

Peace was a concept for humans. Sar’een would know no peace until the oak branch was placed on her body and the dirt of the earth covered her. And even then, knowing what she did about the gods, she wondered if there would even be a release then. Maybe all there was to hope for was a nothingness of a void.

Time passed in the small office, the morning turned to the afternoon, and she came close to an end of her reports. However, as she skimmed over an update on the last holdouts of venatori in the Western Approach being run to ground, there came a knock on the wooden door leading into Josephine’s office. 

“Come in!” her ambassador invited her guest with a sing-song voice. 

In walked the head chef of the kitchens, a human woman. Her apron was soaked in all manner of stains from her work, and her tunic sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing scars from burns and a sheen of sweat therein. Her face was wrinkled around her eyes, but plump everywhere else, and her pin-straight hair pulled back into a tight braid with long strands of gray flowing out from her temples. She gave a curt bow to Sar’een and Josephine before approaching them.

“Bettia! I have good news! We’ve found some sources for the salt you requested to preserve food for the winter,” Josephine informed her brightly.

Bettia gave another bow at that, “Thank you, milady. You’re always so quick.”

“I try,” she responded happily. “Was there something else you needed?”

“Aye,” Bettia affirmed. “I need a new staff.”

Josephine cocked her head in confusion, “A new staff? What’s wrong with your old one?”

“They’re gone.”

“Gone?” Sar’een joined in the conversation. “Gone where?”

“Don’t rightly know, Inquisitor. They just up and gone.”

“Did they tell you they were leaving?” Josephine pressed the chef, but Bettia shook her head vigorously.

“Didn’t tell me nothin’. Didn’t say they were leavin’, didn’t say where they were goin’, didn’t bother to even say goodbye,” she explained. “I got no one to man the kitchens with me now.”

“Every single one of them left?” Sar’een pushed on. “There were ten people working under you.”

“Aye. All elves too. Mewyn and her whole damn brood...here just last night, but not a one showed up for morning prep.”

Sar’een stood from her chair, “They left in this storm? We need to inform the guards on the walls. It’s too dangerous to travel through the mountains now.”

“Don’t think they’re goin’ through the mountains,” Bettia said. “My larder didn’t have no food taken from it, the horsemaster said all the mounts are accounted for, and Mewyn’s bunk is the same as she left it. Same as the others.”

“Surely someone must have seen them leave,” Josephine interjected calmly. “A whole family cannot travel the Frostbacks with no food, no provisions, and no transportation. They must be around here somewhere.”

“Wouldn’t have come to you if I hadn’t checked, milady. They’re just....gone.”

Sar’een did not know the cooks in the kitchen personally, but she knew most of them were elves. That’s how it always worked among humans: they get to be in charge, while the grunt work was left to those with pointy ears. It was the same everywhere, too. Elves cooked their food, raised their children, tended their gardens, mended their clothes...all for a scrap of wages and no recognition for making their society run. That Bettia had to request a new staff entirely, her kitchen unable to function, was a sign of how integral they were.

But as sad as it might be, the elves still depended on that work. They had to feed and clothe themselves, and without the wages they earned for their labor, they had little means for either. Especially in such an isolated place as Skyhold. If Mewyn and her family had truly left into the storm of the Frostbacks, there was something very, very wrong in the kitchens to cause it. 

“What did you do to them?” Sar’een questioned Bettia pointedly. “Did you mistreat them? Use a switch on them?”

“N-no, your grace. I…I had to scold the girls a couple of times for getting distracted by stable hands, but I did right by them. The best I could, I swear it!” she declared her innocence. Sar’een eyed her carefully, trying to discern the truth of it. “They may have pointy ears, but they’re still workin’ like the rest of us. Still tryin’ to make do. I don’t look down on a one of them!”

“Well, they couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air,” Josephine said. “We need to find them.”

_Into thin air._

Sar’een’s eyes widened at the realization, and she rushed out of the door of Josephine’s office. 

“Wait here!” she called behind her, but heard Josephine’s dainty steps following closely on her heels. It didn’t matter. She trusted her Ambassador and continued towards her destination frantically.

Down the main hall, off into a secluded stairway, heading down deeper underground of Skyhold, until at last, she arrived to where she wanted to be. The narrow corridor hidden behind a bookcase of an ancient library, and at the end, a door made entirely of metal, locked by a bolt and by a magical ward. Sar’een dispelled the ward with a few short words and a wave of her hadn, unbolted the door, and pushed it open with a grunt. It was heavy and cumbersome and above all, very loud. The metal scraped against the stones of the floor, creating an otherworldly screeching noise that filled the hallway.

On the other side of the door, the Eluvian sat idle. There was no glow of it having been activated, and if it had been closed recently, she could not tell. What she did notice however was that the embroidered tapestry she had had hung to cover the mirror was left open. The Eluvian was exposed, and Sar’een was greeted with her own shocked reflection staring back at her. 

“You don’t think they…” Josephine started, but Sar’een ignored her, running up to the mirror. 

Panic started to settle into her gut. Only she and her advisors were supposed to have access to the Eluvian’s location. Prying it away from Morrigan was difficult enough; she did not want to take any chances. But if the kitchen staff managed to get through…

“ _Fen’harel enansal_ ,” she whispered into the mirror, and at the password, the Eluvian began to glow with its activation. She repeated it, closing off the pathway.

Sar’een breathed a sigh of relief. There was a subtle fear that somehow she had lost access to the network, and all her alliances and carefully laid out plans with it. But as that fear died, a new one arose: the network might be compromised.

“The ward on the door was intact,” she began to speak aloud her thoughts, “but there’s no other way in but through that door. When I last used this Eluvian, I covered the mirror to protect it. When we entered here, it was uncovered. Someone came through here.”

“How would that be possible if the ward wasn’t broken?” Josephine asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. This was a puzzle, and she didn’t know what was worse: the idea that the mirror wasn’t secure, or that it was, and whoever came through was powerful enough to bypass the ward. 

They were interrupted by the sound of boots swiftly hitting stone as someone approached their meeting. Shortly thereafter, Leliana walked through the doorway, shutting the metal door behind her.

“Ah, so we’ve been breached.”

“We don’t know,” Josephine explained. “What did Bettia tell you?”

“That her staff disappeared and you two ran off like a couple of spooked geese,” she replied calmly. “Er, her words, not mine.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Sar’een affirmed, but she shifted her eyes back to the Eluvian. “The mirror was uncovered when we arrived, but the ward was still up.”

“Are you sure it was the same ward?”

She shrugged, “It didn’t feel unusual or malicious. And it dispelled right away when I recited the incantation.”

“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be unusual,” Leliana posited. “Perhaps it was used to make us believe that the ward hadn’t been broken?”

“You mean a mage came, unsealed it, then put another ward up?”

She nodded, “Yes. And if that mage brought Mewyn and her family through the Eluvian, they would be able to lock the bolt from this side and put up the same ward. Then, follow through the mirror after.”

“But they forgot to pull the tapestry back down,” Sar’een pointed out. “We wouldn’t have known otherwise.”

“Why do all this though? If Mewyn and her family wanted to leave, we wouldn’t have stopped them!” Josephine said in exasperation. “Skyhold isn’t a prison.”

“What do you know about Mewyn?” Sar’een looked to Leliana, and her Spymaster clasped her hands behind her back.

“She’s the lead cook under Bettia. She grew up among the Dalish, but eloped with her city elf husband, Krane, when they were young. He was the butcher for Skyhold. Their daughters helped in the kitchen. Their son chopped wood. Two of Krane’s cousins did general cleaning and maintenance around Skyhold. All of them are gone.”

“None of this makes any sense,” Josephine lamented. “There were no complaints sent to me, no signs of trouble. Why would they leave? And why through the Eluvian?”

“Maybe she was one of Briala’s spies,” Sar’een suggested. “But if that’s the case, why leave in such a hurry? What did she find out that she had to run?”

“Ambassador Briala has two spies that I know of in Skyhold,” Leliana broke in. “Mewyn is neither of them. There’s also the fact that Briala and your interests align. I’m sure if there was something of concern to the Ambassador, it would be of concern to you as well.”

“We need to get to the bottom of this,” Sar’een stated firmly. “Josephine; send for Ambassador Briala. I want to explain the situation in person and hear her thoughts. If this was not her doing, then there’s the possibility that the network is compromised. We’ll need to plan for that.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Josephine curtsied. 

“Leliana; have Agent Charter start asking the elves in Skyhold questions. Elves always know each other’s business. Find out everything there is to know about Mewyn and her family. Find out if anyone heard that metal door squealing in the middle of the night. Give Charter sovereigns to offer as incentive, if needed. Someone will share something that will lead us in the right direction.”

“Understood,” she confirmed.

“One more thing...have Cullen send out a small search party. If by chance they did leave out into the storm, I want them to have a fighting chance,” she looked on as they both nodded their understanding. “You’re both dismissed.”

Josephine and Leliana both gave a small bow, and left Sar’een alone with her thoughts in the Eluvian’s chambers. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the mirror, her lips pursed, her brow furrowed, and her heart racing. The network was the only thing that gave her people the upperhand. It was the only thing that was going to allow her to keep a safe eye on Wycome and the Lavellan settlement. It was the only thing that would keep her in a seat a power where she could make a difference. It was her lifeline, and whoever accessed it must know.

And she knew of only one other person who walked in the network without a password freely.

Sar’een reached up and pulled the satin cord that loosened the tapestry, causing it to fall back over the mirror, and she tried not to think about the false goddess who she knew lurked somewhere inside those Crossroads. 

Even more so, she tried not to think about what elves would do if Mythal made herself known to them within.


	63. Act III: Lavellan -- Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over a year has passed since the new leadership rose in Wycome, and Warlord Revas finds himself consolidating power of his own.

“Wind’s blowing the right way. Make it quick.”

Two hunters under Warlord Miran scurried out from the underbrush of the forest leading up to a cave they had tracked a group of smugglers too. With practiced precision, one of them pour oil around the low campfire the smugglers had left outside their hideout, while the other waited until she had fallen back, then threw a combustive oil-soaked linen into the dying fire. With a great _whoosh_ of heat, the flames rose up from the dead and spewed thick, choking clouds of black smoke into the air. The wind caught it, and the cave seemed to swallow that smoke up like a fine wine.

The hunters fell back to their positions in the underbrush, and Miran licked his lip expectantly. His fingers toyed with the metal clasp on his quiver of arrows while he watched for their plans to unfold. Only a moment or so before the smugglers were smoked out and went to investigate, and only a moment or so before he’d finally send these pond-scum suckers back to their Maker.

Warlord Revas crouched patiently next to him, his face fixed like a statue and his eyes completely focused on the scene. There was an intensity in the situation that seemed unwarranted, and Miran suspected he wanted something out of these smugglers, though he couldn’t place what. 

When he had made the call to Lavellan for a couple hunters to help him flush out this scum, he expected a few Ethinan to show up--not the new Warlord himself. The Silure’s were moving back from their summer hunting grounds and were closer to Nevarra than Lavellan usually liked to go. Miran had sent the bird so they could overwhelm the smugglers and not lose anyone, not because he wanted to invite a full-scale engagement on his platter. 

He didn’t know why he thought it’d be different though. Despite it all, the new Warlord was still the former Banal’ras, and the former Banal’ras worked under the Maiden for almost a decade. He was as known for his brutal efficiency as he was his ruthlessness. Some things just don’t leave people once they take off the clothes, especially something like that. Miran figured Revas handled a lot of his operations himself for that very reason.

Couldn’t blame him, but Miran was getting too old to listen to some wet-eared kid tell him how to do things. Aid was aid, but that’s where it ended. He had already decided it, but the sweat still formed on his brow and the acid in his gut still stirred like a mythical kraken in the deep seas, all restless and briney. Aid still came at a price.

Everything came with a price nowadays.

“ _By the ghosts of the Fade, who left the fire up_!”

The smugglers in the cave were starting to feel the effects of the smoke. One of them bellowed their displeasure at the assumed oversight by some farmer’s son turned brigand, and one by one, they started to find their way out of the cave.

“Douse it!” A stocky, middle aged man shouted, and a reedy looking boy hurried to follow his orders. He threw his cape over the fire and jumped up and down on it in an attempt to put it out. 

It only made matters worse.

“Maker damn it all Siggin, get some water!” 

The boy and another one of the smugglers rushed over to a barrel near the entrance of the cave, and with a grunt, drug it to the fire. Once there, the other smuggler stood back while the boy popped open the metal ring holding the top of the barrel in place, and poured their water supply over the campfire.

The oil Miran’s hunters left made the whole thing spread in a great inferno. 

The boy screamed in pain at the sudden rise of the flames. The rest stumbled backwards and away from the danger, but the boy was either too dumb or too scared to figure out what to do. He fell to the ground and frantically patted his clothes, now quickly burning up, and cried his agony over it loud enough to wake the gods. 

The stocky man heaved a great sigh, took off his own cloak, covered the boy with it, then started stomping on the burning mound of panicking human with an exasperated groan. The boy’s screams started to give way to pitiful cries, and after, Miran only saw a trembling body on the ground, the cloak that saved him still smoking from the water mistake.

“Someone put oil in this,” the stocky man surmised, then looked between the three other men that had exited the cave with him. “ _Fucking Ronar._ ”

“You think he did it?” one of the others asked.

“‘Course that lead-shitted son of a whore did it!” the man shouted. “Who else is wanderin’ ‘round the northern Marches? Get down to the river and make sure he didn’t take the goods!”

“But the fire…”

The stocky man pulled a bullwhip from the belt at his waist and snapped it at their feet menacingly. 

“I said **GO** , you slop pigs!”

The three of them hurried off, one with a cowardly yelp, leaving no one left but the stocky leader and the burned boy. Miran looked towards Revas and met his eyes. He gave a silent nod and began to lurch forward towards their prey, slowly, carefully. Miran followed suit, his bow at the ready and the heat of the fire making his brow sweat more. It was only one man, but who knew if more lurked in that cave.

But Lavellan’s new Warlord didn’t hesitate. He swiftly cut around the trees, despite the firelight making it easier for the human to see their positioning. Miran thought mutinously to himself about how he wished he could still move like that, but his hips ached and his knees cracked, and even at his best, he was never as good at scouting as he was at wailing on a skull. 

The rest of the hunters moved slower, and Revas managed to reach the flank of the stocky human before anyone else. Miran slowed himself, and signaled for his hunters to slow as well, waiting for a signal. 

It never came.

A swift arrow to the neck was what they got instead. The stocky man dropped his bullwhip and threw his hands to his throat, grasping and gurgling and desperately clawing in an attempt to save himself. In one heartbeat, he dropped to his knees on the ground. In three, he had fallen still on the mossy patch, just a few steps from the fire. Dead.

“Thought we were keeping them alive,” Miran rose from his spot in the underbrush, along with the rest of the hunters approaching the dead man, irritated to find out that some old habits died very hard with Revas. 

Revas pointed towards the boy still whimpering on the ground in pain, “He’s alive.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot,” Miran snapped at him. 

“He had a whip,” the younger Warlord shrugged off his irritation and slung his bow over his back. “Humans only use whips on two things: their pack animals or elves. I don’t abide by either.”

“I don’t care what he has! If you tell me one thing, don’t go and do something else! You should _know_ better. That’s how hunters get killed,” he approached the dead man and motioned for some of his hunters to douse the fire. They grabbed the crude shovels out of their hiding spot behind a nearby rock and began throwing dirt on the flames. 

“Twig. Take a few people and track the ones headed to the river. Try to find out where they’re going. We can use whatever goods they have hidden away,” Revas commanded his second, and with a nod, Twig sprinted off with a few of the Lavellans the Warlord brought with him. 

Miran sighed and pushed the burnt boy with the tip of his foot, “You alive?”

“Please sirs, please,” the boy stuttered. “I didn’t do anything, I swear it! My mum died and my uncle sent me to Felip because he had no coin to take care of me. I didn’t take anything off the wagon, I swear!”

He grabbed the boy by his singed hair and pulled him off the ground. The boy gave a loud yelp, but didn’t fight.

“What wagon?”

“The-the elf wagon sir! The one with the swords!”

Miran looked towards Revas, who returned his look with just as much confusion as he harbored, “What are you talking about?”

The boy’s eyes went wide and the burns on his face made him look like a ghoul, “I-I thought you were here because we robbed the wagon.”

“If you don’t start talking some sense, I’m going to hang you up and let the crows eat you,” Miran threatened him. The boy was spooked enough. Wouldn’t take much to get everything he needed.

“It was a wagon!” he cried pitifully. “It was traveling along the river road! Felip said there was no knif-- I mean, there was no elves guarding it, so we took it easy.”

“Did you know of any caravans moving through recently?” Revas whispered next to him, and Miran shrugged. 

“More,” he shook the boy’s head, causing him to let out a mighty yelp.

“There ain’t no more, I swear it! It was one wagon, all alone, with one rider. Felip killed him and dumped him down river,” the boy trembled in his hands, but Miran couldn’t find it in him to feel sorry. Boys like these usually grew up to be unrepentant men. “One wagon. One driver. And a bunch of weapons. That’s all. That’s all I know, I swear on my mum’s ashes!”

“And the weapons?” He yanked the boy’s head again, this time harder than anything before.

“On the boat!” he yelled in pain. “Along with everything else we’re smuggling out of the Marches!”

“Where were you headed?” Revas pressed him, and Miran turned the boy’s head towards him for an answer.

“West. Felip has a buyer in Nevarra with connections to Orlais. After that, I don’t know where it goes, and Felip never cared enough to talk about it,” the boy’s sobs were getting annoying. “Please, I never wanted this! My uncle forced me! I just want my mum!”

“Your mother is dead, shemlen,” Revas answered him, “and if you’re lucky, you won’t join her.”

The boy shuddered and sobbed even more, but the younger Warlord wasn’t moved.

He snapped his fingers towards one of Lavellan’s Ethinan, “Take him and tie him to a tree. We have to wait for Twig to come back before we can confirm what happened here.”

Miran cocked his eyebrow as he handed the kid off, “What? Already changing your tune about rushing in and killing?”

The Ethinan took control of the boy from Miran’s hands and led him away from the fire that was swiftly dying down. He barely noticed though. Revas was staring through his face like fire himself. 

“You know as well as I do what they use those whips for,” he began to walk around the flames and towards the cave the smugglers abandoned. Miran followed after him.

“Still don’t have to like not being told what you’re doing,” he answered bluntly as he closed the gap between them. They walked inside the cave, and the dampness clung to the smoke, making it smell like water logged, burnt wood. Miran hated that smell. Reminded him of failure.

“Didn’t have an opportunity to pull you to the side and let you know,” Revas blew him off. “Unless you wanted him to live?”

Miran eyed him up and down over that, then turned his gaze back towards the shambling mess of a camp the smugglers left. 

“You know damn well I didn’t,” he responded. “But take my advice: I’ve seen a dozen warlords as young as you spring up, and I’ve seen a dozen of them get buried because they think they’re invincible. Would be a shame to see the same thing happen to you.”

Revas gave him a mocking smile, “I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

“Sure you will,” Miran cleared his throat, then attempted to change the subject. “Looks like all they have is probably on their little boat. Nothing here but junk.”

He kicked a crate full of broken glass, and Revas nodded his agreement, “Twig will take care of it.”

“What about the boy? You believe his story?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed as he leaned over and looked under a matted old blanket for any surprises. “He seems young to try and manipulate us.”

Miran gave him a wry grin, “Even babes can lie, Warlord.”

“I know that.”

“You still want to spare him though,” he pointed out. 

Revas gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Ha! Easy to shoot a bulky shem holding a whip...not so easy to look at a child and do the same.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Miran gave him a pat on the back, “That’s probably because you’re a father now. You see your little one in every child’s face.”

Revas said nothing, but he didn’t need to. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he tried to assure him. “We all go through it. Life feels a little more precious when it’s up to you to take care of it.”

“I guess.”

“And I heard you and the Maiden welcomed a second one recently,” Miran went on. “One always seemed enough to me. I thought after my first, _‘Creators, how can I love another one as much as her?’_ Then my second one was born and I learned everything new.”

The younger Warlord seemed to pull inside himself at the direction of the conversation. His face went stone-hard and he rose back up to his full height. Miran rolled his eyes.

“I’m not judging you for it,” he gave a sigh. “Mythal knows we Dalish have enough shit to deal with on our platter that we don’t need to be worrying about what traditions are more sacred than others. A child is a blessing in any case. You have my sincere congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Revas replied stiffly. 

“Another boy?”

Revas shook his head, “A little girl. _Mona_.”

“Mona,” he breathed the name out, then thought on it’s meaning. “ _Hare_. For the old Maiden?”

“Yes,” he confirmed softly. 

“Must’ve been hard to leave her so soon after she opened her eyes for the first time,” Miran suggested, and the way his eyes cast downwards confirmed it. “You didn’t have to come out here and take care of this in person. I suspect you wouldn’t have in any case, especially so shortly after little Mona’s birth.”

He was silent once again, but Miran didn’t like the game. He was too old and impatient to play with guesses.

“So why don’t you just tell me why you’re really here. It’ll get you back to your babe faster.”

“Den told me you’re not as stupid as you look,” Revas finally unraveled himself and let a grin fly. Miran gave a short grunt at it. 

“Den said that, huh? Cheap talk coming from someone who _is_ just as stupid as he looks.”

It earned a hearty laugh from the younger Warlord, and Miran felt himself loosening too. A sense of humor was a start. 

Revas reached into his belt and pulled out a piece of parchment and handed it off to him. It was a hefty thing, with a wax seal depicting an open clamshell exposing a pearl.

“From Wycome?”

Revas nodded, “Yeah. Directly from the Union itself.”

“Well, shit. What do they want with me?” he asked idly as he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The tiny letters were printed immaculately on the parchment, and he had to squint to read them properly. 

“A promise,” Revas responded to his query. “A promise for you, and a promise from you, to be exact.”

Miran went over each line carefully, his reading rusty from years of neglect, but the picture began to unfold clearly. 

“They’re gifting the Silures uninhabited territory north of the Minanter in exchange for an outpost,” he looked up from the letter, his mouth turned down in a frown from confusion. “What? _Why_? Our Keeper and the Maiden were already in talks for having Clan Silure migrate to Lavellan’s settlement for the harsh winters.”

“Why settle with Lavellan when you can have your own territory?” Revas asked him. “Backed by the Wycome Union and the Margrave of Ansburg. You’d be free to live without the Maiden’s eye on you.”

Miran saw the seal of the Margrave at the bottom of the letter, right next to the Union’s, “Why us?”

“Why not? These are your hunting grounds. You know these borders better than any human living in a walled city,” Revas began to pace in front of him, slowly, but confidently, each step sure. “With your own territory, you have no more worries about farmers calling the Amalgamated Guard and chasing you out of the forests Clan Silure has called home. And if some humans decide to mess with you? Wycome’s Guard and the hunters under my command can be here at a moment’s notice.”

“And what does Wycome get out of it?”

“Another outpost to safely see the traders through; an inn to keep them warm a fed. A promise of safe passages so that they can keep the coin flowing and keep the Union in power,” he explained briskly. “Sal thinks if he makes the elves the reason that Wycome is lucrative, then he’s securing their safety from shemlen interference. No one wants to bite the hand that feeds.”

“The Minister wants us to be his hounds that bite the hands while he counts the gold,” Miran crumbled up the parchment, threw it on the ground, then spit on it. “We’re Dalish. We don’t submit just because some flat ear waves glittering promises in our faces. Or you forgotten why we wear vallaslin on our face?”

“I think even we’ve forgotten why we do it,” he replied icily. “We saw it in some old pictures in some even older ruins, so that means it has to be important. We never needed a _why_ in the Dales, and we only made one up so we could be different from our people who didn’t see the point of holding on.”

“Would’ve expected more out of you,” he shook his head. “If you don’t see why I’m not going to let my people become a Marcher city’s pets, then you’re too far gone.”

“And you think depending on Lavellan to survive this winter is better? You really think you and your Keeper are going to bring your clan into our settlement and walk away without giving something in return?” Revas paced faster, his brow furrowed and his face dark. “The Maiden still serves the goddess, despite everything. She will want flesh for flesh.”

“The Maiden isn’t in any place to make demands,” he answered dully. 

“The Maiden has been stockpiling grain and cedar for a year now,” he shot back. “She’s opened up lines of trade with other cities in the Marches that have never traded with Dalish before. The Council is supporting her, and if she wills it, you will be _encouraged_ to retire and your hunters integrated with mine. Do you trust your Keeper enough to say _no_? Do you trust Clan Silure’s Council to say _no_? Do you trust the Maiden to not reach for more?” 

Miran stared at him silently, taking in all the young Warlord was sharing. This wasn’t just a concern of integration. There was some deeper plot brewing.

Revas pointed down to the crumpled parchment sitting in the dirt, “That piece of paper gives you an option...and it gives you resources. The Union doesn’t expect you to do this with the handful of hunters you have left. They send grain and gold and extra hands to help build the settlement up. Even Guild members to patrol for you, if you want.”

“They want to buy our freedom.”

“They want to buy your _services_ ,” Revas corrected him. “You don’t need to pay tribute or give up anything. You just need to maintain the territory and keep the caravans passing through on the river road safe. Things you’d be doing anyways, since bandits pose as much a threat to Dalish as they do traders.”

“Still doesn’t feel right,” he confessed to him, even though his gut said the concerns about the Maiden were right. _Whatever the Maiden wants, she gets._ That old adage hadn’t gone away in her disgrace. “You’re asking us to change how we live. Asking us to change what we’ve been doing since the fall of the Dales.”

“The world’s changing Miran. If you don’t go along with it, the Dalish are going to go the way of the Dales. It’s a slow, painful death, and I’d rather not see it happen. That’s why I asked the Union for this on your behalf.”

“You did…?” Miran asked disbelievingly. He would not have guessed this from Revas. “What do you want from us? And don’t lie to me. I know you didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart. You aren’t the type. Besides...you didn’t leave your little babes and come all this way for nothing. What do we have that you need?”

Revas stopped his pacing and glared at him, all stone and mountain, hard as the bones of the earth. 

“I’m doing this _for_ my children,” he said quietly, but with a conviction just as hard as his face. “The more Warlords I’m allied with, the more troops I’ve impressed myself upon...the more support I have in the face of the opposition. Some people want tradition to win out over everything else. They want to go back to starving in the Dales while noble chevaliers hunt their game and burn their camps. I didn’t sweat and bleed for my clan so Lavellan could revert back to hoping a bad season didn’t mean our extinction.”

“So for the promise of our own legal territory and resources, you want...what? Loyalty? An oath?”

Revas shook his head, “Just for you to show up at the High Council.”

There it was. The crux of the matter at hand. The new Warlord faced judgment from the High Council just as surely as the Maiden. He was consolidating.

“And speak in favor of you?” he pressed him. “What if I don’t agree? What I think your Maiden is a blasphemer against the gods and that you are, at best, a willing pawn? Then it was all for nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Revas stared through him, and the light from the setting sun began to fade, washing that face in darkness. “It will not be for nothing because you are a Warlord. Our duties are nothing but ending lives to keep our own safe. The only god we’ve seen is Death, and Death cares as much about us as the stars in the sky do. And more than that...you’re a man of conscience; a man of order. You’ve always wanted nothing but the safety of your own, and you think the best way to that isn’t piety.”

“A lot of presumptions…”

“I don’t want your loyalty,” Revas stopped him. “I don’t want your words. I want your clan’s safety and continued existence, and I know you want the same. The most I’m asking for is your presence. Just you, the honorable Warlord Miran, to show up at the High Council and just be you. That’s enough.”

Miran gave a chuckle, “Never tagged you for the type to care about honor.”

“I don’t. Honor gets people killed. But I respect people who aren’t impressionable and out for themselves.”

“Since when?” he asked him. 

“Since I realized that I couldn’t be that anymore myself,” Revas answered truthfully. “It’s the fucking hardest thing I’ve ever done. So there’s something to admire in the people who have always been like that.”

Miran was left quiet at that. He’d done a lot of shit in his life he knew wasn’t worthy of any kind of respect, but he still tried to do the best he could. It was a thankless job, most days, and one that haunted his sleep every night. There was something strangely comforting knowing that it wasn’t all in vain.

“Listen, I’ll--” he opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by swift footsteps entering the cave and making their way towards them. Miran’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and saw Revas’ second, Twig approached.

“We caught them at their ship,” he blurted out, slightly panting from the run back. “Took it easily. It’s a small skiff, not a big barge or anything. These guys were small time. Probably hired on help for a bigger group.”

Revas crossed his arms over his chest, “Probably. We’ll see if we can get more information out of the boy.”

“There was something weird, though,” Twig went on. “The weapons? All elven make.”

“Did you recognize their make?”

“It wasn’t Vhannas, that’s for sure,” he replied eagerly. “Wasn’t stamped by a Child of the Forge either. These looked old. Really old. But also brand new? Like someone took some Arlathan models and remade them. Nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Revas looked to Miran, who looked back with concern, “Think it’s the Diceni?”

Miran kicked dust up from under his boot, “Maybe. There’s a ceasefire between the Diceni and Abersher’al until after High Council. Could be either one of them preparing for the worst.”

Revas turned to Twig, “Secure the weapons. We’ll hand them over to the Silures to replace their old stuff. We’ll keep one or two pieces to take back to Lavellan as a safeguard.”

Twig nodded his agreement and turned and left them be once more. 

“Where would either clan get the resources to have new weapons made?” Miran asked the silent air once he was gone. Revas shrugged.

“And who would’ve made them?” he answered with a question. “Something we’ll have to consider in the future, among other things. And the future is approaching fast for us all.” 

Revas bent down and picked up the crinkled up parchment, covered in dirt, and handed it back to him. Miran took it with an open palm. 

“Think on it, Warlord. The future of your clan can be in your hands...or in it can be stuck in the past. The choice is yours.”

The young Warlord turned tail and followed his second out of the cave, leaving Miran to himself and his thoughts. Thoughts of submission, of the gods, and of all the despicable things he’d done in his time as Warlord to keep his people safe. All the good things he’d done too, though. It hadn’t all been sacrifices and blood. His decisions had saved lives too, as well as ended them. Didn’t know if that’s what it meant to be honorable, though. And he sure as all the hells didn’t know if being honorable in the future would mean anything at all.

He turned the piece of parchment over in this hands once, twice, thrice, then quickly shoved it in his belt before he left that dark cave and into the open night sky, still obscured by the dying fires and choking with their dark smoke, with a crack of his knee and the acid in his gut bubbling and rising into the back of his throat.

The future wasn’t just approaching. It was already here.


	64. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain goes about the routine of her life as the Lavellan settlement prepares to host a High Council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very slight sexual content here.

The training grounds were eerily quiet in the early daylight hours, empty of the usual noise and chaos of the hunters practicing, but Elain had grown to appreciate quiet when she could find it. Long ago, silence to her meant that there was nothing for her to do, and she loathed the thought of not having something to throw herself into. Now, it was a peaceful respite she found herself seeking out whenever the sensation of suffocation became too strong.

Children had changed that, she supposed. Heliwr only seemed to close his mouth when he stuck his fingers in it to sleep, and quiet with Mona meant something might be terribly wrong. And there always seemed to be something wrong. Her tiny baby was born so frail, so weak. Another failure of her role as mother, one that almost cost them both their lives. If only she had listened to Nellia and the healers. If only she had tried to care more. 

She shivered under her cloak at the guilt of her stubbornness creeping into her mind once more, but even now, Elain could not shake the relief she felt for being away from her children. Her expectations of the challenges they’d bring were deeply misinformed, and she found herself floundering over figuring them out. 

Adults were easy. Adults listened when she spoke. Their motives were clear, and even if they weren’t, she could guess what they plotted behind the doors of their huts. There seemed to be no reason or pattern to Heliwr’s screaming tantrums or Mona’s disturbed sleep. None that she could discern, in any case. It made it all the more difficult to be the mother she should be to them, and she knew they suffered for it.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and brought it away from her self-pity, and she turned her head to see one of the hunter apprentices practicing with a wooden dirk on the dirt-packed sparring ring. The little girl lunged at an imaginary opponent, then rolled headfirst onto the ground when that opponent surely slashed at her with its imaginary sword. 

What unsettled Elain was that the silence still prevailed. She could see the movements, see the girl as plain as daylight, but no sound came from her practice. As she tried to listen closer, it occurred to her there were no sounds of animals, either. No halla beating their hooves in the pens, no frogs croaking by the river, no dogs howling for their morning feed. It was as if the whole settlement was empty.

“Da’len, come here!” Elain called to the girl, hoping to break this strange spell that had overcome her, but the girl either didn’t hear her or ignored her entirely. She wrapped her cloak around herself tighter, then moved past the wooden-fenced boundaries of the grounds and towards the girl.

“Do not be rude to your hahren,” she was more agitated this time. The silence was painfully clear now, and a nervous ache rose in her chest. “Turn around.”

The girl still played her game with no concern, and that nervous ache turned into a harsh pain in Elain’s heart. Something was not right here. 

She strode up to the girl and placed a hand on her shoulder to turn her around, far more aggressively than she would usually see fit. The girl spun around at the motion, dropping her wooden dirk, but not losing her balance.

Her face made Elain fall backwards onto the ground.

It was _her_ face, though not quite her face. The nose was crooked, the lips full but the mouth narrow, but her eyes were a glassy black and the hair on her head fell off rotting skin in clumps. When she smiled at Elain’s graceless fall, sharp, conical teeth glowing red stared out from under the grotesquely stretched maw.

“ _Do not be rude your hahren_ ,” the facsimile of the girl mocked her. “Such ego from one so small.”

The world around them shifted suddenly; a jerk of reality as Elain knew it, leaving her head spinning. The trees surrounding the training grounds grew impossibly tall and turned a lightless black, their canopies covering the sky. Grass sprung up from the dirt-packed ground and it was sharp, so sharp. It impaled Elain’s backside and made her cry out in pain. There were no golden blooms that came, though. No relief among blades that sunk into her skin now. There was nothing but her and the fear.

Fear that only grew as the girl became even less child, and more monstrous. The neck grew longer, like the trees had grown; then, the ears along with it, making them look like two endless spires on its head. Sharp claws appeared where hands and feet once were, and there were even more patches of decaying skin peeling back there. The legs and arms stretched out as well, the skin breaking again, taking on a spindly, lean impression, and the mouth that once looked so much like Elain’s stretched and cracked open, until it was nothing but rows and rows of teeth eager for a meal.

The little facsimile rushed her, the limbs moving in a preternatural way that made her stomach lurch, and its garish face looked voracious on its approach. The jaw snapped as it leaned over her, and inky black strands of bitumen fell from the bared mouth like drool from a hungry beast. The low rumble it emitted from its chest did nothing to break the illusion of the beastial nature of this nightmare, and Elain cried quietly to herself, knowing that it was no longer maggots who would eat her in this place; instead, it was a monster who wore her visage. 

“Will your bones break when I taste you, I wonder?” it questioned her. “Or has your age made your flesh as tough as leather?”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”

It jerked its head closer to her face, making Elain flinch back, but it made the matters at hand worse. The blades of grass did not break and shatter like brittle glass, as they had before. Now, they seemed to be like little sharpened steel pins, with barbs that dug into her. Her flesh ripped and tore at the sudden movement, shredding the back of her. Elain let out a howl of pain as it did, her soul screaming to be rid of this place forever. 

“The Prey always begs for its life when it’s been snared,” the monster sneered at her. “Only moments before, it ran free and thought nothing of its Death. Foolish little things you are.”

Black bitumen dripped between the gaps of the sharp teeth, falling onto Elain’s face and burning her. It stuck to her flesh like hot tar, but when she tried to close her eyes to spare herself the view of the mouth, she found her body would no longer obey her commands. Once again, she was paralyzed in the Black Forest, though it was different than before. It was not the goddess who stalked her; it was merely some little demon hungry for a meal.

And so it feasted. It ravaged her neck, digging those teeth in her throat, making loud, crunching sounds as it dug into bone. Elain could do nothing but let it happen and pray for an end. Her prayers were never answered in this place.

But the monster stopped, pulled its head back from its meal, and bared its horrific teeth once more.

“Chewy old meat. Too tough for me,” it spat at her. “Give me tender flesh that melts on my tongue.”

Elain was dying. The monster wearing her face had nearly faded from her sight as Death came to finally claim her. Her eyes were still forced open, but darkness settled in her vision. A sweet blanket to protect her as she found that release she craved.

“Young meat. Soft meat,” it whispered from the darkness. “You have tender meat still, yes? Flesh of your flesh. Blood of your blood. They’re so small and easy to smell. I could swallow them in one bite.”

It reared its head upwards and sniffed the air, “Shall I? The Mother would not care. They’re as much Hers as they are yours. One would not fill my gut, but two? Two tender little fruits plucked from your womb. I shall relish that.”

The last thing she saw before her vision left entirely was the monster sprinting off in the opposite direction, its limbs stretched even further and its body a blur of slick oil and sharp weaponry. Deep into the fathomless blackness and corruption that grew in this place, leaving her alone as her wound claimed her. 

And it was the first time it did. Elain felt Death, felt her life slip from her body, and watched in helpless horror as the sky itself seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. No longer black and empty, but swirling and electric, full of greenlight and hoarse voices. The sky itself seemed to fall, drawing in on her dying body, hungry to consume what was left of her afterwards.

Her breath became so labored it hurt, and then, it did not come at all. The hurt was suddenly gone, and so was the fear of Death. The sky fell on top of her after her last breath, immersing her in its ghostly light, bathing her in its magic and wonder. 

_So this is it,_ she thought to herself as she floated through the moss-colored ether. _This is how it happens._

The floating did not stop as she watched maggots erupt from the ground to eat her remains, and it did not stop when the ghost light burned through them to take their meal. Even in Death, the unknown things in the world must eat. It was here as it was in the Wild, in the living domain. Hunt and be hunted, kill or be killed. Feast, for it is all you will have to live. It was comforting, after all she endured, to know that she would linger; that she would not be wasted; that none of this was wasted. The routine of this cycle gave her peace, and she could ask for nothing more.

But just as she finally found that long, sought-after peace, found a release from the suffering of dreams she so long endured, Elain heard that familiar chorus fill her ears, and it seemed everything around her --outside of her and inside her-- spoke in Andruil’s tongue:

_You do not have my permission, Maiden. Open your blasphemous eyes before I pluck them out._

_\---_

Elain knew where she was when she opened her eyes. It was dark still, but she had two oil lamps lit, casting a subtle glow in the sleeping room of her home. The paralysis that usually gripped her was nowhere to be seen, but she still felt her heart racing in her chest.

She sat up with a great gasp of air and remembered what it was to feel a heartbeat in her chest. Life, _life_ , that strange, beautiful thing that wasn’t apparent until it had slipped from your fingers. Her eyes blinked, her pulse pumped, her toes wiggled, her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth. _Alive alive alive_. 

But…

Elain turned to her side and quickly pulled back the woolen blanket covering the space next to her in the bed, and with a breath of relief, found her Heliwr slumbering there soundly. His two middle fingers were hanging lazily out of his mouth, and she watched with deep appreciation as his little chest rose and fell in his breaths. His eyelids fluttered as well as he undoubtedly dreamed, but his mouth gave a phantom of a smile. A happy dream, a happy little boy, a boy undisturbed by what haunted his mother. Oh, _alive_!

She dared not wake him from his dreaming, and instead, crawled out of her bed as quietly as possibly, taking the few short steps to reach the basket where her daughter slept. It was darker there, where the oil lamps could not quite chase away all the shadows, but Elain was undeterred. She leaned over the basket to look inside, then let out a breath she did not know she was holding when she found little Mona as deep in dreams as her brother. But her face was not calm and sweet, nor did it smile. Mona’s visage was still as stone, casting its own dark shadows, and if she were to open her eyes in that very moment, Elain could not be sure she wouldn’t see the glassy blackness of the Goddess there.

Still, she could not stop herself from reaching in the basket and gently stroking the dark hair on her head. It was meant to soothe her baby, but Mona certainly did not need it. It was more for the Maiden, still shaken by the new nightmares her mind could produce, hoping that the warmth of her child would ease her heart.

To her great disappointment, it did not. Mona made her more fearful, as if she was a totem in which the Mother of Hares would try to punish her now. A little vessel to reach out and plant even more frightening seeds in her heart, bringing her new visions of consumption by monsters who wore her face. Or perhaps it was Elain herself who always consumed. Perhaps that monster was nothing but a true reflection of her soul. 

She shuddered to think of it.

“There really is no escaping it, is there dearest?” Elain whispered to her sleeping daughter. “I can turn my back on the Goddess, but She will always be watching. I may cover my own eyes, but not Hers. I hope that in my ignorance, I did not damn you to Her gaze as well.”

Mona did not wake at the sound of her voice, so she rested her head against the basket and hugged her arms close to her chest. The night was long passed and dawn would be coming soon. There was no point in sleeping now. More nightmares awaited her, and she’d rather not face that again so soon. Especially not alone. 

“It will all be over soon,” she assured herself quietly. “I will not carry this forever.”

Little lies, she knew, but they helped. Even if it was just for the moments before the sun rose, they helped.

\---

“There is simply not enough resources to take on more elves! We’re not a nursery for all of the Marcher Cities to dump their alienage rejects!”

Elain attempted to concentrate as the Council once again went through the motions of denying her ideas for development. A week ago, it was a fear of criminals stealing all their grain at once stopping them from building silos. A month ago it was fear of an increase of caravan robberies if they were to open more tradelines. A half year ago it was fear that building fortifications around the settlement would invite aggression. 

But the fortifications were built. A Child of the Forge approved more open tradelines. And ground had already been broken on the first silo. 

Some things had, thankfully, not changed: whatever the Maiden wanted, she could still get, albeit with an annoying amount of resistance. 

“My mother was one of those _alienage rejects_ , if you recall,” one of the senior artisans replied acidly, causing Sorn to clear his throat. 

He was seated next to her at the heavy cedar table heading the gathering hall where they held all their meetings now. That coveted position was a battle Elain had not won; she didn’t feel the Warlord appointing Sorn as lead Ethinan so he could sit on Council was proper, but it was his prerogative. One he invoked rather quickly --and most decisively-- once he realized _he_ could not always be on the Council. 

“That’s just not reasonable, Loremaster,” Sorn said diplomatically. Always so diplomatic. “The clan has always taken in any city elves who sought us out. We’ve grown and prospered because of that unwritten rule.”

Elain drummed her jaw with her fingertips, listening as closely as she could while trying to feign her continued boredom. She had to be careful not to show her weighing some words more heavily than others, even though it was more than true. 

“Never in the amount that have come to us now!” Kellen shot back. “I understand that many of us have had family that came back to us and accepted the Old Ways, but this is not the same situation. This is dozens of city elves trying to relocate to our lands.”

“And we have plenty of land to share,” Sorn fired back. “More than we can support right now. The thing about settlements is that they need to grow to survive. We aren’t going to grow if we shut our gates.”

Kellen stared at Sorn intently, but seemed to digest his words carefully, “Growth has to be balanced, da’len. If there is too little, we stagnate. If there is too much, we overextend and leave ourselves vulnerable. Either way, it could spell an end for us.”

The Loremaster looked to the rest of the gathered Council at their table, then continued, “I don’t not dislike city elves. I do not think they are lesser than us. I understand that they are just as part of Elvhenan as the Dalish, and we should welcome them back to the Old Ways with open arms. But not all of them come to the Old Ways. Not all of them are prepared to survive in Autini. Despite all the work done here, it’s still a treacherous territory.”

“We learned to survive here; others will too,” Sohta interjected. “And Creators know I could certainly use the help. I just don’t have enough hands to take the halla to pasture deeper in the valley.”

“And my artisans are under immense pressure to build,” Vhannas spoke up as well, surprising Elain. He had been all too happy to contradict her suggestions since her disgrace. “These projects are a great undertaking, and we are being worked to the bone. Not to mention we are working with rudimentary tools. Lumber cannot be processed efficiently without a mill.”

“There are still members of the clan living in yurts. Permanent homes must be finished before we can move onto a mill,” Elain said unconvincingly. Let her father think she was against the idea so he would push it harder.

“Homes can be built faster if we can process the cedar faster,” Vhannas pointed out. “I know you prefer your luxuries, but productivity is more important.”

“This isn’t about me: it’s about weathering the long winters in the valley. The yurts are not the safest option anymore.”

“Since when has the Maiden cared about the safest option?” he replied coldly. 

Elain rolled her eyes at the baiting, “And since when have you cared about the progress of the settlement? We are all capable of a change of heart.”

Vhannas mouth went into a tight line, “It’s not a matter of heart. It is simply good sense. This Council would do good to let their hearts control them less and let their senses prevail.”

“Oh Vhannas! So dramatic,” Aricia said drowsily. “Let’s find out all the facts of the situation before we have a philosophical debate on societies ruled by reason versus empathy, shall we?”

Elain nodded and snapped her fingers, drawing Nellia’s attention from the small table set below the Council one. She squared her shoulders to attention and looked up at her expectantly. 

“If you would Nellia, please read the plea we received from Kirkwall.”

“Of course, Maiden!” Nellia shuffled a stack of parchment in front of her, frantically searching for the letter Elain requested. When she found it, she rose it in the air triumphantly, and her face beamed in pride as she unrolled it to read its contents.

“ _To the most venerable leaders of Lavellan, greetings,”_ she began confidently. “ _I am writing to you to implore you to consider offering refuge to approximately fifty elves hailing from the alienage of Kirkwall. Though I’ve expended coin and other resources in trying to help them rebuild after the Mage Rebellion, the living conditions are still destitute in some areas. I expect some of these refugees may return to Kirkwall once the conditions improve, but given the state of the world, many may feel more comfortable building a new life in the Lavellan settlement.”_

Nellia went on, “ _I would not ask you to take the burden of our city’s troubles into your hands lightly, but the elves here have been on the receiving end of some of the worst we’ve had to endure. Though, I will not just implore your empathy and compassion for your people; I will also offer resources for your settlement to adjust to the new population. For your cooperation, I am offering the following:...”_

Elain reached for her quill in her inkwell at the table and touched it against her own blank parchment. She preferred to not rely on her memory anymore. The notes could be reviewed at a later time with clarity that her mind could no longer conjure at will.

“ _Sixty bushels of wheat; ten well-established beasts of burden and five sturdy caravan wagons to accompany them; twelve casks of wine from the Tethras wineries in Antiva; forty chickens; three percent share in four iron mines owned by the House Tethras, to be used for raw production; open trade with the Merchant’s Guild of Kirkwall.”_

“Three percent is good?” Sorn asked no one in particular as he jotted down his own notes. Vhannas nodded solemnly but gave no verbal answer.

“ _I hope you will find this offer generous enough to be able to open your hearts and gates to those in need. I await your response, as do your people looking for a better life. Yours in gratitude, Viscount Varric Tethras. As written by Seneschal Brann.”_

“It is a generous offer,” Elain scratched down her last bit of notes as Nellia finished reading the letter. “But not a final offer. We can negotiate for a higher percentage and a larger share of wheat, but in the meantime, I think we should welcome the refugees waiting.”

“That defeats the purpose of a negotiation, don’t you think?” Aricia asked. “If the elves are already accepted, the Viscount has less reason to negotiate--or even uphold his offer.”

“The Viscount is a close friend of the Keeper,” she explained. The deal was nearly established, and her boredom was returning in force. “He will uphold his end of the bargain.”

Aricia sat back in her chair, “You have more faith in the people the Keeper associated with than I do, but I don’t see the harm in allowing it.” She looked to each Council member at the table. “After all, it seems we could all use the extra hands.”

“Hands that I will need more than anyone else, if this deal should go through,” Vhannas interrupted. “That iron ore will need processed. We will need to have a dedicated smelter, as well as a sawmill for working our wood.”

“The price of progress, I suppose,” Elain mumbled as she made notes to herself on the distribution of labor among the settlement. That would be another fight in Council. Another one she would have to go through the motions with, but would win regardless. 

“Can you promise that they will be available for my training?” Vhannas pressed her.

She looked up from her notes, “Of course not. They aren’t even here. Their skills and state of mind will have to be assessed before they are integrated into work.”

“Then I request a formal hearing so that I may assess the workers myself.”

The Council seemed to let out a collective groan at Vhannas’ forthrightness, Elain included. She was tired, and her father’s games were not done to be anything but contrarian and difficult. But he still had teeth, and he would sink them into her neck gladly should she show weakness.

“You will need to request a formal meeting from the Keeper,” she answered dully, then feigned reviewing her notes. It was not wise to let him see her annoyance. “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten the rules of procedure, Vhannas. It’s tiring.”

“We haven’t even voted on whether or not to accept the offer, and you’re all already plotting how to get the choicest meats from the kill,” Kellen said bitterly. “Procedure here has become a farce.”

“Then take it up with the Keeper on her return,” Elain sighed. “She will be arriving within the week and if you have such an issue with--”

Her thoughts were turned off course as she watched a solitary hunter creep up the long pathway of the gathering hall. He veered around the hearthworkers gossiping around the spits in the center of the hall, where their supper roasted over the low fires, then climbed up the dais and leaned over Sorn’s shoulder to whisper something in his ear.

“Can I help you?” she directed her attention to the hunter. He looked up at her in shock, as if bewildered about what to say.

“I..I uh, just had a report for Sorn. Nothing important,” he stammered out.

“And do all our hunters report to the lead Ethinan now?”

He shook his head, “N-no, Maiden. Not that I know of.”

She set down her quill back into its inkpot, then glared at him icily. 

“Then why are you reporting to him instead of your Maiden?”

He fell to his knees and raised his hands in regret, “Many apologies, Maiden! We were told by the Warlord to take anything to Sorn in his absence. I forgot my place.”

“You did. Do well not to forget it again,” she said flatly. “What is the message that is so urgent you must interrupt our meeting?”

“It’s not urgent at all, Maiden. Not at all. Warlord Revas just sent a runner to let us know that he and his entourage are approaching the settlement. They’ll be here before the lunch hour.”

Elain nodded, then rose from her seat, “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

The hunter jogged out of the hall quickly, his mind most likely still reeling from the sharp rebuke of his negligence, but Elain could not find any sympathy for it. The Warlord’s hostile takeover of the hunters had to be put in check, lest she lose all the power she had. 

“Where are you going?” Sorn asked. 

“To meet my beloved husband at the gates, of course,” she said as sweet as honey. “We’ll resume our discussion on the refugees once Keeper Sar’een arrives within the week,” she announced the dismissal of the Council as well.

“Will there be time for that?” Kellen asked. “Members of the High Council will be arriving with her.”

Elain frowned deeply, “The world doesn’t stop while we wait for tradition to decide whether or not it wants to be relevant.” She motioned to Nellia as she stepped down from the dais. “I’m sure the Keeper will agree.”

She did not wait to hear any more arguments; she did not even wait to see if Nellia followed her. Elain walked with purpose and determination, knowing very well she had been rebuked as publicly as the poor hunter who only followed his Warlord’s orders.

As she found herself outside of the gathering hall and into the courtyard of the settlement, she heard Nellia’s rather loud footsteps behind her. 

“Are we really going to go meet them at the wall?”

“Yes,” Elain responded swiftly.

Nellia clapped her hands happily at the response, “Can we go get the children from the nursery? Samahl will be so excited to see her papae again!” 

“We’re going there now,” she replied. “It would look selfish if I didn’t bring them to greet their father, and I don’t need to look even more foolish in front of him. That hunter delivering the message did well enough for one day.”

“Oh, Elain,” she reached out and touched her shoulder as she caught up to her pace. “You shouldn’t put the children in between you and Revas like that. And you can’t still be upset with him, can you? It’s been weeks!”

“You underestimate me,” Elain said bluntly. 

She gave a loud, exasperated sigh at the response, “That’s not the way to have a relationship! You’re supposed to talk about things, not bottle them up and punish each other.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice on the matter, nor do I need it,” Elain snapped back in annoyance. “What I do need is for the clan to see their Maiden greet her hunters upon their return home with a smile on her face and her devoted family at her side. Do not underestimate appearances, either.”

“How can you live like that though?” Nellia pressed her as they approached the open pavilion the youngest children of the clan were playing under. “Hiding how you’re really feel for the sake of everyone else seems exhausting.”

“It’s the burden of leadership; and the thrill of it. Doing what must be done to make sure my name is in the mouth of every elf in the Free Marches is beyond description. It’s thrilling; dangerous; invigorating. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and if it means hiding my true thoughts away so that I may change the course of our future? That is worth ten thousand false smiles,” she explained. “And it’s why I will not stand for the Warlord’s continued interference.”

“I don’t know if him having hunters report to Sorn is _interference_. It’s probably just easier to hear reports from one person,” her friend posited, but despite her time spent with Elain, she was still frightfully naive in the ways of politics.

So she simply ignored her. Better that than to argue and upset her, especially when she would have her little family reunited after several long weeks too. Elain may be many things, but tearing down her strongest supporter in the clan was not something she would allow herself to indulge in.

She strode into the children’s pavilion with Nellia behind her, careful to step around the various wooden toys and baubles scattered about the floor, and the hearthworker assigned to make the nursery function scurried over her when he caught sight of her arrival. 

“Maiden!” he said in surprise but still managed an easy grin for her. “We weren’t expecting you until supper.”

“I apologize Nolin, but the Warlord is returning with his entourage today, and I would like to stand at the gates to greet him.”

“Of course, of course!” Nolin exclaimed, then motioned for another hearthworker sitting on a stool near the sleeping baskets of the youngest children. “Mona just ate and is napping now, but Heliwr is out in the back, near the larder. One of the hounds had a litter a few weeks ago and the children wanted to play with the pups. Samahl is there as well, Nellia.”

The hearthworker gently handed Mona in her basket over to Elain, then quickly retreated back to her little spot on the stool. Elain peered inside the basket and saw her daughter’s eyes fluttering slightly and her mouth slightly open. She was dreaming soundly, and she was relieved at that. No stoney slumber like she saw last night.

“Thank you,” she expressed her gratitude. “I apologize for not being able to stay and chat, but the hunting party will be arriving any time.”

“I understand. We’re all happy for the Lady of the Hunt delivering them safely to us once again.” The Hearthworker’s smile beamed like a ray of sunshine, and she knew in his heart, he truly believed it was Andruil who watched over them. 

Elain missed the days where she thought the same.

They left the pavilion in a rush, Nellia chattering all the while, but Elain was still able to find her way to her son by the wild screams of delight coming from the group of children playing with the new pups. They crowded around the fluffy things; picked them up and carried them; ran while the pups nipped at their ankles; rolled around in the dirt and mud and dirtied themselves together. It was a good thing for the dogs to learn how to treat the children, but soon they would be off to be trained for hunting and guarding the grounds. 

She spotted Heliwr and Samahl on the ground, taking turns pulling on a stick one of the pups was stubbornly holding in its mouth. Every time one of them let go of the stick and the pup brought it back to them, they squealed at the trick. They were both covered in dirt, with their hair tangled nests and their little leather boots long since abandoned. 

“Heliwr!” Elain called to her son. “It’s time to leave.”

He either did not hear her or ignored her, and simply continued playing his game. 

“Heliwr.” She said it more sternly this time and approached him directly. “We’re leaving.”

“No,” he said easily before picking up the stick again. Elain bent over and took it away from him.

“Now.”

“No!” he screamed this time and reached to take the stick-toy back. She pulled away from him, causing him to scream even louder. “NO!”

Elain dropped the stick on the ground and grabbed Heliwr swiftly by his forearm. He was not happy with this turn of events, and in a fit of rage, plopped himself on the ground and yelled until his face turned red.

“Heliwr, we are _leaving_ ,” she said between gritted teeth, but he only seemed to bunker down harder. He kicked his legs and big, wet tears flowed freely from his eyes. The other hearthworkers overseeing the children playing with the pups shot her looks of pity, and Elain’s own face began to burn red. 

“Heliwr, don’t you want to see your papae?” Nellia asked him calmly as she scooped up her own daughter. Samahl went to her freely and happily, and Elain grew resentful at it. 

“Papae?” he looked up at her tearfully. The dirt on his face was more pronounced when some of it had been washed down in streams of tears.

“Yes, papae! He’s coming home today,” she answered him sweetly. He turned his attention back up to Elain, as if he needed confirmation.

She nodded her head, “We’re going to see your father. Come quickly before he arrives at the gates.”

He stood up from his tantrum on the ground, and with legs still not quite used to walking, wobbled off at top speed towards the direction of the settlement gates. As long as he wasn’t crying, she couldn’t find it in her to care. His legs wouldn’t take him that far, anyways.

Her little group began their journey to the other side of the settlement to greet the hunting party, with Nellia talking to the children and herself most of the way. Elain let her carry on, only interjecting with a word or two, her focus drawn to more important matters than how her friend felt about Heliwr’s refusing to listen to her. Her son’s resentment towards her was nothing new, and over time, she’d relegated herself to knowing that it was just how things are with her son. 

There were more direct things under her control to focus on than her poor job at mothering her own child.

When they crossed the training grounds though, all the words of Nellia and the sounds of the life in the settlement seemed to fade away. A dark cloud passed over her mind, and she was suddenly reminded of her nightmare the night before. The clang of steel on wood was muffled and the grunts of hand-to-hand training were drowned out by an ominous, pervasive silence. All the hunters training seemed to have their backs turned at once too, as if they were hiding themselves from her, obfuscating her vision so she could not see who they really were. It seemed as if the whole world was moving outside of her, and she was held under some deep, all-consuming undertow. Who were these hunters? Why did they haunt her now?

It was startling how fast the vision came on, and breathtaking how much it made her chest hurt in fear. Her eyes frantically searched for the monstrous creature that had manifested in her nightmare, as if it could somehow make itself known here too, but there was nothing. Nothing but the hunting grounds, the same as ever, but still somehow obscured from her in its utter silence.

Panic began to rise in her throat like acid, burning her as it did, and she tried rapidly blinking to make the vision of faceless quiet disappear. But it did nothing but blur what she saw into black and grays, melting into each other, draining the last bits of life from the scene. 

Then, as if by command, all the hunters turned their faces upon her at once. It was mechanical, nearly, done by design, and they looked no longer the hunters they were, but more of the homunculi found in tales of June. And in unison, as they turned, a loud, shuddering, cracking noise sounded as well. It was as if their neck bones were scraping together at the motion, creaking bone grinding against creaking bone.

The noise amongst the silence chilled her, but the inky black eyes of these hunters that were no longer familiar froze her to the bone. 

_Not now, not now,_ she tried to plead with her mind, _please not now._

But their bodies faced her now too, full of decaying limbs dripping with bitumen and rot. They did not walk, did not speak, but rather just idly swayed. Swayed to and fro, nearly imperceptibly, but Elain could see. She could see everything, every tiny movement, feel it in her skin and in her head, all the way down to the tips of her hair. And when she drew her breath deeper in her chest in an attempt to calm herself, she felt these phantom hunters do the same.

She felt them as acutely as the wind on her face or the weight of her daughter’s basket in her hand. When she stumbled backwards at the revelation, the phantoms did so as well. More gracefully, more fluidly, as if they were made of water. Elain closed her eyes tightly, so tight that her face hurt, and tried to pray away the vision.

_Lift this from me Mother,_ the words were but a whisper on her lips. _Take this from me. I beg of you._

The scraping noise of bone against bone screeched out again, this time even louder, and she was paralyzed by the fear of it. She could not open her eyes. She could not. If she saw them again, if she knew what they were doing…

_I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry, I cannot._

The bones cracking and splintering against each other grew louder, then louder again, until they filled the air and her ears with their reckoning cries. Her whole body shook at knowing they were coming for her, but she did not dare watch it, she did not dare. 

It was only when she felt the ice-cold touch of boney fingers digging into the back of her neck did her eyes fly open. 

And there was nothing there. 

The training grounds were full of apprentices and lead hunters alike, all of them working with and around each other, as alive and sure as the sun above them. There were no more empty faces, no more blackened eyes, but her heart still stood frozen in her chest. It hurt to breathe, but she took rapid, short breaths to compose herself. 

“Elain? Are you alright?” it was Nellia’s voice that finally penetrated the walking nightmare, and her gentle hand on her shoulder made Elain jump out of her skin. She scrambled backwards, nearly dropping Mona’s basket from her hands, her eyes wide in fear and her heart beating against her ribs at the intrusion.

“I’m fine!” she gasped, clutching at her chest as if it would stop her heart’s racing. She closed her eyes for only a second more, slowed her breath, and then opened them again. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Nellia set her daughter down and pulled Elain into her arms instead. 

“It’s nothing. I just need some more sleep,” was all she could say, and it was the greatest lie she had told in a long while. This was not nothing. It was far greater than she wanted to admit, and far from over. 

Though the training grounds were behind them now, the effects still lingered. There was still darkness in places there shouldn’t be, and things that lurked in those shadows that waited with salivating maws to consume her. She leaned into Nellia to walk, not even trusting her legs to hold her up, and slowly, they found their way to the gates that guarded the settlement. 

They sat on a wooden bench, and Elain thankfully was able to catch her breath. She took in air deep and slow, and the sounds of Lavellan returned to her ears as if they had never left. All was as it was supposed to be: mundane in its routine, the life she saw everyday. 

“You’re not okay,” Nellia reiterated again as they waited for the hunting party to return home, and for once, Elain couldn’t find the strength to put on a face that said otherwise.

\---

Though many others in the clan had gathered to watch the hunting party return, Elain was the one who got to stand at the forefront. In the center of the gates, her idyllic little family waiting patiently for the return of their beloved husband and father, and her smile she wore was full of love and adoration. It was the perfect painting of a homecoming, and no one but Nellia knew her panic and fear that had overcome her only a half hour before.

And when Revas did ride in, flanked by his closest friends and confidants, she felt that desperation that had lived in her heart slowly life. Though she would never said it aloud, she had missed him terribly and felt how suffocating her loneliness could be. It was a relief to see him, despite the anger she still harbored for his departure those weeks ago.

He smiled as well when he saw her and their children waiting for him and hopped off his mount to get to them faster. Elain stood waiting patiently, Mona’s basket in hand, but Heliwr broke away from her grip and sprinted to embrace his father once more. Revas saw him coming, handed the reins to his halla off to his nearest hunter, then jogged to meet his son halfway. 

Revas scooped him up and spun him in the air and was rewarded with Heliwr’s contagious giggles and the words _papae, papae_ repeated as if it were a prayer.

“Da’assan!” Revas exclaimed loudly while Heliwr clung to him. “I’ve missed you!”

“Papae!”

Her smile grew brighter at their reunion, and she let that lingering anger disappear for the time being. Heliwr never seemed to be happy without his father, and the peace it brought her was a genuine thing. She was a terrible mother, but Revas had their son’s complete adoration. 

“Welcome home,” she said to him warmly when he carried Heliwr towards her.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead gratefully, “It’s good to be back. Where’s my Mona?”

Elain looked down into the basket in her hands, where their daughter still slept. Revas followed her gaze, then reached out with a reverent hand to touch Mona’s cheek gently.

“She’s grown so much,” he said hoarsely, and his smile quickly turned to a frown full of regret.

“She has,” Elain agreed. “She even started giving little smiles to me after she eats. They grow so quickly. It’s a shame you had to miss some of it.”

“I know,” he said sadly, and she regretted immediately saying it. Though she had not meant to be cruel, it was still a reminder of what his work was taking away from him.

“Come,” she held out her hand in offering. “Let’s walk.”

Revas looked at her hand as if it was his saving grace --a blessing of a goddess-- but hesitated to grab hold. Instead, he adjusted Heliwr on his side and his frown deepened.

“I can’t. I’ve got to talk to Sorn and get debriefed. Lots of issues to handle, orders to approve…you know.”

Her smile went tight and she felt her teeth clench together.

“But you just arrived home after being gone for weeks. Heliwr has missed you.”

Revas looked at Heliwr, who clasped onto him as if he would disappear, and then turned his gaze back to her. 

“He can come with me. I’ll take Mona too, if you want,” he stopped when he saw her smile break and her face turn hard. “Come on, Elain. I have work I need to get done. It doesn’t stop just because I’m home.”

“Of course not,” she replied coldly, but attempted to save face in front of the people still gathered around them. “I have matters to attend to in any case, but I will take Mona with me. She cries when we’re separated for too long.”

Revas nodded at her lie, and she tried to feel guilty for it, but couldn’t summon it up. After all these weeks…

“Well,” she didn’t want to let him see her upset. Not after all that had happened that day. “I will get back to my work. We can speak more tonight once you’ve eaten and rested, yes?”

He leaned in and kissed her once more, this time on her ear, “Don’t be mad. I’m all yours tonight.”

She turned her head away from him, but the damage was already done. He set off again, Heliwr in hand, marching towards wherever Sorn had set himself up at to find out the true state of affairs in the clan. Elain was left standing in the dirt as the rest of the gathering moved past her and back to their routines, perfectly unaware of the Maiden being abandoned in the center of the road. She was alone, again, and sorry for it.

But instead of standing and looking like a fool, she gripped her daughter’s basket tighter and returned them both to their longhouse, where should could at least wallow in her pity in peace. It was quiet and positioned towards the far southern part of the settlement, more secluded and isolated than other parts. She had it built there as a way to give her and Revas space to themselves, but more often than not, they spent most of their time in the gathering hall or some other place handling some issue or another.

Like he was now.

Elain gave a exhalation of relief when she at last found her way home, and then set Mona down carefully so as not to wake her. She would need to wake soon though, and when she saw the piles of missives that needed to be addressed stacked upon the small desk at the end of her bed, she had wished she let Revas take her. 

“Ah well,” she sighed to herself. “At least you cannot meddle with my reports and spill ink all over my work like your brother does.”

She sat down at the stool in front of her desk and set herself to work, forcing herself to focus on things she had let stagnate and other issues that needed addressing, and did her best to forget the shun she received when the Warlord came home. It was difficult when she remembered the missives he had received in his absence that sat unsealed on her desk as well.

But that was the mundane nature of it all, wasn’t it? Life here didn’t stop because she needed his warm and comfort to chase away the ghosts she saw in the darkness. Isn’t that what she had tried so hard to make the Council see only hours before? 

Her wants were petty compared to the needs of the settlement. The nightmares would never be gone completely, but she could eradicate the problems Lavellan was currently facing. Damn the ghosts to the void where they belonged. This was what was important.

She picked up her first piece of parchment and broke the wax seal on it. 

\---

Sunset had come and gone, most of the requests had been answered, supplies had been tallied, messages sent off to the clan’s courier to send out on birds, Mona had been fed and coddled and bathed and now slept once more, and somewhere in between, Elain had snatched a piece of duck for her supper. 

It had been productive, mostly peaceful, and utterly mundane. Usually Nellia was there to help her in these tasks, but she wanted her friend to have time with her own spouse after the long weeks away. So she had whiled away the hours until she could spend the evening with Revas.

It was hours after she finished when he finally staggered into their home.

He reeked of cheap ale and smoked fish, and he held a sleeping Heliwr tightly to his body. Their son’s little limbs dangled limply over his father’s chest; a testament to his exhaustive evening, to be sure. She smiled when he arrived, despite her annoyance with the lateness of the hour. 

“You said I had you tonight,” she reminded him gently as he set Heliwr down in his cot next to Mona’s basket. 

“I know,” Revas tucked their son in, then straightened himself and put on an apologetic face. “I had a lot to catch up on and lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm,” she hummed her disapproval, but decided against punishing him for it. “Well, now that you’re here, there’s more work to be done.”

Elain pointed to the stack of missives he had received that she had stacked neatly on her little desk, and Revas heaved a deep sigh at the sight of it. 

“Tomorrow,” he said tiredly. 

“It was not I who lost track of time,” she answered tersely. “These matters have sat waiting for weeks. They need to be addressed now.”

He groaned quietly and rolled his head back, but relented to her demands with another heavy sigh, “Fine.”

She beamed brightly at him, gloating over her win, but he just rolled her eyes at the taunt and proceeded to undress his armor and settle in for the night. Elain watched carefully as he unbuckled his pauldrons and chestpiece, unlaced his boots, and let loose his long hair. Once finished, he approached her at her desk, and with a cheeky grin, lifted her up from her stool and sat down in her place.

“Revas!” she gave a gasp but settled herself on his lap quickly. “You could’ve just asked me to move.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

She shot him a glare that he returned with an even wider grin, “This is serious.”

“Sure it is,” he dipped his face down into the crook of her neck, then placed lazy, wet kisses there. “Very serious.”

It was Elain’s turn to sigh as his attempts at a distraction, but she would not be fooled. She reached for the first missive on the stack, and broke the seal on the scroll.

“This is from Guard Captain Yemet,” she read the words for him, since Revas could barely do so himself. The response would come from her hand as well, since his writing was worse than his reading. “He is requesting additional guards for a large caravan set out to travel the river road. Standard percentage of profits, and a bonus for each extra hunter. He’s requesting ten, but would prefer upwards of fifteen. What shall I tell him?”

“Give him twelve. He’s overly cautious about these things, and my hunters end up getting lazy and bored,” he replied easily as his hands began to roam her body. On her hip, her stomach, her chest, pausing only when he found something he liked. “Are you sure we can’t do this tomorrow?”

“You might be busy then too,” she pointed out tartly, earning her a nip at her earlobe. It worked a sweet giggle out of her, in spite of herself. 

“I might be,” he whispered into her ear. “If you’ll let me.”

“And why would I let you busy yourself with me after you were so eager to abandon me here for three weeks?” she had not meant to be bitter, but the resentment was still there. It had not left with his return.

He rested his chin on her shoulder, “We already talked about this. I needed to go.”

“You did not need to go six weeks after your daughter’s birth. Six weeks after you nearly lost us both,” she said calmly, but the hurt there started to feel fresh all over again. “And then to leave me here to deal with Heliwr on my own, knowing he will not listen to me. I barely slept while you were gone, and our son terrorized me in all my waking hours.” Elain stopped herself from rambling all her hurts, and instead, took a breath and centered herself. “You know I’m woefully lost when it comes to mothering them. And that I’m woefully lost without you.”

“Elain…” he trailed off, then hugged her tighter to his chest and kissed the top of her head. “You know Warlord Miran needed convincing. If it hadn’t been me, we’d still have the pressure of supporting their clan for the winter on us.”

“Did you at least persuade him to accept the offer?” she questioned him. “It was all for naught otherwise.”

“I think so. He wasn’t going for it at first, but I just dropped the threat of the Maiden and he was much more...open.”

Elain couldn’t help but smirk at the remark, “I’m glad to see I still inspire some fear in the clans.”

“Oh, they are terrified of you,” he joked with her now. “Their teeth chattered at the sound of your name.”

“Yes? And Twig could not have done the same thing as you? Sorn? Any one of the well-trained hunters you pride yourself on?” she asked. “Was it worth it to leave me alone and miss weeks of your children’s lives?”

“It had to be me,” Revas pushed a strand of her hair that had fallen over her face behind her ear, then let his fingers trail down her jaw in silent reverence. “It might not have been worth it, but it had to be me.” 

Elain closed her eyes at the gesture, and any will she had to be angry disappeared with his tender attention.

“You’ve come a long way, Warlord,” she commented quietly before pressing her lips to his with all the softness she could muster, “but I still miss those days where I was the center of your world. The moments where I asked you to choose between me and your duty are truly over.”

“There was never a choice,” he confided in her. It all felt so warm now. “Everything I do, I do for you, Peach.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time. “ _For us_. Everything you do, you do for us. And I wouldn’t dare ask for more.”

“You could if you wanted,” his mouth moved down to her neck where he lavished her with beautiful obeisance. “Ask me to give you more.”

Elain ran her fingers in his hair and led him lower down, “Hmmm...there is something I have in mind.”

“Tell me.”

“The Keeper will be arriving in Wycome in a few days, and I believe she will need the full pomp on an escort back to the settlement,” she laid the request out. “It would strengthen your position in the eyes of the High Council if you were to lead them back.”

Revas stopped his work abruptly. 

“What? You want me to leave again? I just got back.”

She reached out and cradled his face in her hands, “Oh I know, ma lath, and it pains me to ask you, but for such a little thing, it could mean all the world. You will not be gone for weeks again. Only a few days.”

“And how exactly does this help?” he wasn’t convinced.

“It’s a matter of power,” she ran her fingers along the lines of his vallaslin. “When the High Keepers of the South see you are no whelp of a Warlord, they’ll understand the repercussions in dismissing you. So show up in your full regalia, bring in your most trusted and decorated hunters, and lead the ride back to Lavellan. They will see your strength is not balanced upon my Mantle anymore.”

“You’re sure about that?”

She nodded, “Haven’t I always told you? Appearances are as important as the words.”

“And what appearance are you showing by having me do this?” 

Elain grinned at his perception. Too few gave him the credit he deserved for it --herself included.

“I will get to greet the arrival of the High Council as arbitrator of Lavellan, my arms outspread in welcome as I revel in all I’ve created here, in my full regalia, in all my decoration, without the rest of Council to overshadow me. Namely...you.”

“Getting rid of me to make yourself look good, eh?” he bit his lip as he thought on her request, then let out a deep sigh. “I guess it can’t hurt. Any opportunity to keep you here, I’ve got to take.”

“I knew you’d understand.” 

It was her turn now to lay obeisance on him, and she did so with fervor. Hot, deep kisses graced his mouth as offering, and Revas accepted them gratefully. They inspired soft moans in her, along with more pressing wants, and that familiar fire that she had thrown her oaths away so freely for rose up in her chest again. 

The initial blessings were given, and Elain stood from his lap and closed the heavy wool curtain hanging from their ceiling to give them the little privacy they could get. Revas followed her lead, standing up behind her, then smirked at the confirmation that there were more praises to come; in retaliation for his levity, she pressed her hand firmly against his chest and pushed him down onto their bed.

“ _Ask me to give you more_ ,” she mimicked his words in a hoarse whisper as she climbed atop of him and straddled his waist. And when he looked up at her, it still felt like she was the only thing in his world.

“ _More_.” 


	65. Lecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious disappearances reach Wycome; Sar'een is reminded just how young she is.

“Aye, I’m tellin’ ya...just up and disappeared into the night. Didn’t leave no note or tell her ma where she was goin’. Just...gone.”

The morose elf at the Whale’s Eye recounted the tale of his missing wife for the third time that evening, regaling them all with promises of lost loves and unsolved mysteries. It was after hours at the docks, so a good crowd was gathering to hear it. Nothing better than ending a shift with cheap, watered down ale and vanished spouses.

Milly sipped her own beer from her iron mug in the corner of the tavern and listened closely to the tales being told. Even if she didn’t know the man, the way he told his story was of keen interest to her.

“And she left all her shit behind?” one of the man’s friends prodded him, but the man shook his head.

“All but one thing…” he paused for dramatic effect, taking a swig from his mug then setting it carefully down on the old, creaky table. “Took a knife her grandfather carved. He was Dalish, you see, so it was a pretty thing. Can’t figure out for the life of me why’d she take just that though.”

“Probably to sell it and start her new life without your sorry slop in it, right?” his friend jabbed the man.

“Nah, not Kilaria. She was a good one.”

“Better than you deserved, that’s the damn truth,” another friend jumped in. “Just face it, Umar, she found somethin’ better and finally left you.”

The friend made a lewd grab for his crotch, making the whole crowd laugh raucously, but Umar himself didn’t laugh. He gave a half-hearted smile, then finished the dregs of his ale. 

“Here,” he tossed a brass coin to the bartender and stood up from his seat. “I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll see you shitheads on the docks tomorrow.”

“If we’re lucky! Wouldn’t put it past you to end up floatin’ upside down in the Amaranthine before the sun rises!”

“Yeah yeah,” Umar said dejectedly, then made his leave. 

It was the chance Milly had been waiting for. She laid a few coins on her table and followed behind him, careful not to draw attention to herself. It was easy in this part of town; the alienage was still a mess, and there were folks there at all hours rebuilding it back up from the bones. One lone elf passing through wasn’t an unusual sight.

Umar walked slowly, making it easy for her to follow. He took the back alleys towards the center of the alienage, and it wasn’t long before she caught sight of the Vhenadahl towering above the newly constructed stone buildings. _Jossa Square_ , the new Minister had called it, and it was as pretty as all the paintings made it to be. Milly wasn’t from Wycome, but she felt no less pride from seeing the great tree here than she would back at home. 

It was a sign of resilience, determination, a will to survive...and apparently, the last place the disappearing elves had been seen in Wycome.

So it came as no surprise to her when Umar found his way there, laid down at the base of the tree, and looked up towards the night sky. It left her with the perfect opportunity. Quick as she could, she pulled a half-burned candle from her travel bag, and lit it on a nearby brazier lighting the paths of Jossa Square. She took the candle reverently to the Vhenadahl and made as if she were giving an offering. 

“Peace on you, brother,” she said to Umar as she approached, and he merely grunted a response. She laid the candle down and kneeled down next to it...next to him.

“I hope I’m not being a bother. First time in Wycome,” she explained. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Ain’t botherin’ me none.”

“Good,” she replied cheerfully. “What brings you out here at this hour? Doesn’t the city have a curfew?”

“Not like before, no,” he answered glumly. “Guards are still wary of folks out too late, but they don’t bother ‘em if they aint’ startin’ trouble.”

“Different than back home then.”

“Where you from?” Umar finally turned his attention to her and looked her up and down. She knew he’d see just a plain old traveler, nothing distinguishing about her. Made her job all the easier.

“Halamshiral, if you believe it,” she responded warmly. 

“Long way from Orlais.”

“Yeah,” she laughed softly. “They burned the alienage and killed most of my family. Me and ma stayed, but then one day, she was gone too.”

“Sorry to hear,” he offered his condolences. “She die?”

Milly sighed, “Don’t know. One day she was there, making bread like she always does, then the next…gone. Like she walked into thin air.”

That got his attention.

“She leave a note? A message?”

She shook her head, “Nope. And left all her things too. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Huh,” he went quiet for a moment, then moved closer to her. “I’ve been hearin’ all kinds of rumors of elves disappearin’, but I didn’t believe it. Just some scary story the shems are tellin’ to get the Minister to back down or somethin’, right? But then my wife disappeared. Just like your ma.”

“It’s happening here too?” she laid the bait out for him, and with a nod of his head, he took it.

“Yeah. Far as I can tell, no one knows why.”

“But what about your wife? Did she tell you anything before you left? Anything that seemed off?”

He chewed on his lip, debating whether or not to answer her, but his need to relieve himself of the burden of it won out.

“Yeah, somethin’ a little strange. A few days before she was gone, she told me she’d been havin’ nightmares. Someone callin’ to her in her dreams,” he explained, his voice low. “But she weren’t no mage and didn’t feel no temptation or anything like that. All she knew was the person callin’ had a name: _Mythal_.”

“ _Mythal_ ,” she breathed, relieved to have one more corroborating story. “Who’s that?”

“Don’t know. Old Renner says it’s a Dalish thing, but I don’t know no Dalish to ask. If I had coin to spare, I’d quit my job and walk out to Lavellan to look for answers.”

“Lavellan?”

“The Dalish who helped free the city. They got some kind of Lady Maiden there that deals with the gods,” he explained to her. “Saw her myself during the purge last year, but Kilaria wasn’t havin’ no dreams then.”

“Do you think she’d know more about my mother?”

“Don’t rightly know, darlin’. You look like you could make the trip though...maybe go find out for yourself,” he stood up from his position on the tree. “Me? The docks ain’t gonna to stop gettin’ shipments, so that means I ain’t gonna stop workin’. Take care of yourself, sister.”

“You too,” she called after him as he walked away. 

Once she was sure he was gone, she slinked across Jossa Square and into the shadows of the alleys leading out of the alienage. The moon was high in the sky, so it made it easier to see, but she had scouted the city for a week beforehand. She’d make it fine.

Her concerns now lie with the next piece in the puzzle, and finding out who is moving those pieces around. Whispers and rumors were easy leads, but Umar gave her some verifiable statements. _Mythal_ was some key to figuring this all out.

But it wasn’t Milly’s job to solve the puzzle, just point out the moves the opponent was making. She had orders to obey, and she wasn’t about to lose her position over a mystery that was beyond her pay. Just as quietly as she came, Milly slinked back into the shadows, and carefully made her way across the blossoming city to the Nacre Palace. 

Guard Captain Yemet would be waiting for her report.

\---

“The road is bumpier in Highever than I expected!”

Sar’een couldn’t help but agree with Merrill. Their wagon approached the city proper, and it seemed every other moment led to them bouncing from their seats. 

“We’re just so used to Orlesian roads, we forgot about good old Ferelden pits filled up with mud!” she exclaimed. 

Merrill giggled, then leaned back against the side of the wagon, letting her head hang over the side, “Oh, but I missed it! The sun doesn’t shine like this anywhere else in the world.”

She looked up at the overcast sky, “You mean not at all?”

“Mmm, yes. It’s always there, but it’s hiding away, waiting for the moment you need it the most to come shining in,” Merrill sighed. “Keeper Marethari always said the Ferelden sun is the true father of Elgar’nan. He’s so scared of His Son’s Wrath, He shrouds Himself from His sight.”

“I’ve heard the Nevarran clans say that their sun is the true Father of the All-Father, since its heat is enough to anger anyone.”

“That could be true too!” Merrill laughed again. “It was a very long time ago that I lived in Alerion, but I do remember the sun burning the top of my head when I took off my scarf. I think I prefer the Ferelden sun.”

The wagon dipped and bumped again as their driver directed their horses off the main road and towards the docks of the city. It jolted Merrill out of her faux sunbathing, making her laugh again. It felt contagious in how simple and silly a bumpy road could be, and Sar’een found herself laughing along. 

This comfort between them was the only thing that kept her sane for this trip, and the reason she asked Merrill to come with her at all. She always made things seem easier, even if the tasks ahead looked insurmountable, and it reminded her of home. The home she used to know; the home she grew up in; the home she was terrified of returning to now.

“Are you nervous about returning to the Free Marches?” Sar’een asked, diverting her fears onto something else. Or maybe to just feel like she wasn’t alone in this. 

“Not really,” Merrill replied softly. “I’ve lived there so long now. I still don’t understand all of it, but it feels warm.”

“Hmm,” she hummed her response to mask her disappointment. 

“I’m more nervous about returning to the Dalish,” she confessed immediately afterwards. “They weren’t quite accepting of me the last time I saw them. Well, not counting Wycome, of course.”

“That was your old clan, and they were being cruel in excluding you,” Sar’een attempted to comfort her. “Just because they didn’t agree with your methods, doesn’t mean you didn’t have the best intentions.”

“Good intentions don’t matter when someone ends up dead.”

The answer resonated with her deeper than she would’ve expected, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Merrill shook her head, “I’m used to it. Some things just don’t leave us, I suppose. No matter how much you want them to.”

“I wish I could take it away for you,” she confessed. “You deserve so much more than what life has given you.”

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, Inquisitor.”

“It’s not...I don’t feel sorry for you,” Sar’een attempted to recover this, but Merrill had already narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Oh, I’ve made such a mess of things.This has been such a nice trip and here I am, putting my foot in my mouth. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Their wagon crossed an ancient stone bridge that linked the docks across the canals on the edge of the city. The wheels made hollow thumping noises over the uneven, dilapidated path, and the bumpiness from before seemed like the smoothest Tevinter highway compared to this. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was a distraction from the mess Sar’een had worked herself into. 

“I know you’re projecting!” Merrill saw through that too and spoke loudly over the noise. “Everyone thinks I’m so dense. Little Merrill is just too precious to figure it out. Little Merrill needs protection from all the bad things that happen in the world. But I’m not the one who’s scared about going home again. It’s you!”

Sar’een opened her palms and laid her face squarely inside.

“Don’t try to deny it!”

“I’m not!” she relented with a groan. “Yes, I’m scared! I’m scared that everything is changed again and I won’t recognize what I’m going home to! I’m scared they won’t want me there once I’m there. And I’m scared that the feeling will be mutual!”

“Of course they want you there. It’s not like me,” Merrill tried to convince her. “I...well, I did just about everything wrong, didn’t I? You saved your people.”

“Not all of them,” she answered solemnly. Telling her about her doubts whether she made the right choices and her fears over seeing Paeris again was too heavy for the moment; and far too personal. Let those burdens stay with her instead. 

“As many as you could, and that’s something. Most people wouldn’t have cared.”

“You did,” Sar’een lowered her voice again as the noise began to subside, then took Merrill’s hand gently in hers. “This whole time you’ve cared. And now you’re going back to the viper’s pit for me. I can never repay you for all of this.”

Merrill graced her with a smile, then squeezed her hand, “There’s nothing to repay, lethallan. You’re my friend, and I am always there for my friends.”

Oh, how Sar’een wished she could tell her of the trials and torment she endured for her friends, and how she knew this was much more than doing a favor for the people you cared about. But Merrill was simply happy to be in her company, and as selfish as it was, Sar’een did not want to change that. She had walked alone for so long, and it was an easing of her burdens just to have her presence. She could not let go just yet.

“I hope you know that I’m here for you too,” she said softly as the wagon turned on the short path that led to the docks. “For anything.”

“I know.”

The port was only a few moments away, and they rode in silence on the approach. The Waking Sea was quiet for the time being, and all the ships in the harbor floated peacefully under the early summer sky. Their sails reminded Sar’een of the looms her clan used to weave their cloth, all full of bright colors and sigils; each sail was unique, a testament to the captain of their ships. From golden rye on dark green for the Antiva City Company to the iron-gray simplicity of the budding Ferelden Naval center, there was a veritable sea of history and stories floating silently, while the wind whispered into the pages of their books. 

The one Sar’een and Merril sought was different, though. Not in the ship or the sails themselves, but in the hands that built them, maintained them, loved them. And when Sar’een saw it in port, waiting for them like a loyal friend, her heart swelled in anticipation.

“There it is,” she pointed to their destination. “ _Meri’enaste_.”

“ _The Sea’s Blessing,_ ” Merrill translated to no one in particular. It seemed right though. A ship like this deserved reverence. 

It was long. Longer than any other ship in the harbor, and it’s frame made of oak. The prow curved up, making it another thing longer than the other ships and better suited to break against the waves of the deep seas. A single mast towered over the deck, where it held a pristine white sail embroidered with a creature of Ghilan’nain’s: a halla with the hind of a sea serpent, curling over itself while the halla reared. 

There was a cabin built on the deck as well, protected by its sea halla guardian, but it was for supplies and storage. The lower deck is where everyone would sleep, in tiny hammocks hanging from the frames all in a row. And on nights where the storms of summer wouldn’t allow for sleep, many of the sailors would rub the symbols carved into the wooden planks of the ship as a way of asking the Creators for safety. 

She knew how the ship would smell, how the salt would taste as it made a fine crust over everything. How the waves would rock and how no night sky would ever compare to the one she would see laying on the deck of the _Meri’enaste._ How two seemingly endless voids were above her and beneath her on that ship and how full of life both were. And she knew how her people had eschewed all common sense and their own safety to find their livelihoods in both sea and sky.

She knew all of this because her father built that ship. Her mother weaved the cloth that would carry the sea halla. And her aunt...her aunt sailed _Meri’enaste_ across the horizons, for weeks at a time, hunting for fish instead of game. She knew, because before her family moved to Clan Lavellan so her father could study under Craftmaster Vhannas, in a time so far away she barely remembered, this was her life. The life of the sea.

It was the way of Clan Merisal; when other Dalish noble houses went deep into forests and mountains and deserts at the fall of the Dales, House Merisal took to the coasts, finding their survival in their nets instead of bows. Their legends held that their clan’s founder, the Emerald Knight Merisal, helped her house escape the Chantry’s purging by commandeering a ship from an elven trader and sailing it herself over the Waking Sea and to the safety of Highever. It was a story every child of the clan could recite by heart, and it was a proud heritage every hunter wore on their bodies. 

And now it came flooding back into her mind. The memories were vague but the smell of the ocean could not be erased. The sound of the waves crashing on wood could not be erased. The taste of fish fresh off a spear could not be erased. Sar’een never knew how much she missed it all until it was right in front of her again.

“Stop here,” she ordered their driver, and the wagon came to an abrupt halt. Merrill picked up their traveling bags from underneath the seat while Sar’een tossed a bag of sovereigns to their escort. “We’ll take it from here.”

He gave a grunt and jiggled the bag, but she and Merrill had already hopped over the side of their crude transport and started making their way to one that was much more friendly. 

“Oh, this is exciting! I haven’t rode on a ship since...well, since I went on that adventure with Isabela!”

“Adventure?” Sar’een asked her wryly.

“We went to get some treasure from an island full of magical traps. There were a lot of big spiders and a few sylvans too, and a great big demon guarding the loot.The treasure turned out to be rhetorical,” Merrill explained. “I had so much fun!”

“How does a treasure turn out to be rhetorical?” 

“Oh, you know. It was meant to persuade the treasure seekers to kill the demon. The treasure is the fact that you defeated evil, or something like that.”

“Of course, of course. I should’ve known,” Sar’een grinned at her and Merrill laughed behind her hand. Their talk of rhetorical treasure was interrupted by a loud, low whistle from above them. 

She looked up on the deck of the Meri’enaste, and standing there was its captain. Her hair was very dark, nearly black, but for a streak of gray flowing out from behind her left ear. A scar marred her forehead, and her eyes were the deepest of grays, just like Sar’een’s. _The color of the sea in a storm,_ her mother would describe them. They shared the same sunkeness as Sar’een as well, full of sleepless nights and hard work. The family resemblance was uncanny.

“So the wayward child has returned to us!” the captain shouted from the deck of her ship before making her way down the gangway that led to the dock. She stopped when she saw Merrill with her. “Er...the wayward _children_ , more like it.”

Sar’een gently handed her traveling bag to Merrill, and with a gust of excitement she couldn’t contain, she sprinted up the dock, up the gangway, and jumped into the captain’s waiting arms.

“Aunt Kala!” she hugged her as tight as she could, and just like she remembered, her aunt hugged her back even tighter. She was always so strong. 

“Dearest one,” Kala stroked the back of her head, then kissed her forehead. “Look at you. Not the little bean pole from ten years ago, are you?”

Sar’een laughed and wiped the tears that had begun to moisten her eyes away, “No, I’ve upgraded to a wooden post.” Her aunt laughed loudly at the joke. “It’s been too long, Keeper.”

Kala nodded, the laugh still beaming from her lips, “It has...Keeper.”

Merrill quietly made her way up the gangway to join them, a polite smile on her face, but Kala was never one to leave anyone out. She grabbed her friend and pulled her into another tight hug. 

“It’s been too long since I’ve seen you too,” Kala said wistfully. “When news of what happened with Sabrae reached Ferelden, I wanted to sail to Sundermount to investigate. Letting Firsts go off to fend for their own is not what we Dalish are supposed to do. The damn High Keeper told me to stay out of it though.”

“It’s alright hahren,” Merrill assured her. “I did just fine on my own. I don’t need protection.”

Kala looked to Merrill, then to Sar’een, then back to Merrill again, “It isn’t about protection. It’s about solving our problems instead of abandoning people when it gets too hard. The Dalish are family. Every one of our lives should be precious, and we’ve got Keepers out there just willing to ignore mismanaged clans for the sake of keeping out of the Chantry’s eye. It’s not right.”

Sar’een laid a hand on her aunt’s arm, “I’m sure you did everything you could, but there’s nothing that can be done now. Merrill is fine, see?”

Merrill understood her intent and flashed a smile, “I’m fine. I’m happy, even! I’ve gotten to see so much of the world, and the elves living beyond our aravels. It wasn’t easy, but it was a lesson I needed to learn. And...it was my choice. I could’ve gone back at any time. It was my decision to stay away.”

Kala shook her head slowly, then sighed, “If the world with humans is preferable to life in your clan, then I can’t blame you for wanting to stay gone. But that shouldn’t be how it is.”

“We’re the Walkers of the Lonely Path, Keeper Kala; and no path is lonelier than the one we choose.”

The three of them looked up towards the disembodied voice on the deck of the ship and saw a figure that every Dalish the world over bowed a head for. Out of respect, out of tradition, out of humbleness. Sar’een lowered her head and felt the nervousness of the upcoming weeks drown out all the happy feelings the reunion with her aunt had stifled.

High Keeper Elindra of Clan Ralaferin leaned over the side of the _Meri’enaste_ and beckoned them up towards her with an impassive finger, as if their titles and accomplishments meant nothing to her. They probably didn’t. Keeper Elindra had seen the worst of what the world could offer, and still came out as the best the Dalish could produce. 

The three of them followed the command without preamble, and once aboard, Sar’een felt as if she had crossed some threshold. She had been living amongst humans and their society so long...this was the veil she pierced as she threw herself into the dark waters of Dalish society once more.

“So good to see our newest Keeper at last,” Elindra said flatly, then snapped her fingers to indicate she wanted them to follow her. When she took steps towards the supply cabin on deck, the three of them obeyed without question. “Usually, I prefer to be present for all ascensions, so this is my rather unorthodox attempt at welcoming you to our fold.”

“Ma serannas, hahren,” she thanked her superior lightly. 

Elindra pulled on the wooden latch that locked the door leading into the cabin, then pushed the door itself open, “Keeper Kala, I do believe we are ready to set sail now. Give the command to your crew.”

“Yes, hahren,” Kala replied with a bow. When she turned to leave, Sar’een wanted desperately to follow her. It’d been so long since she’d helped a ship cast off…

“Don’t just stand there, girls. Come inside,” Elindra cut off any opportunity to immerse herself in her childhood again with a few simple words. She looked to Merrill meekly, who smiled at her even meeker, and they both understand there would be no questioning the High Keeper of the Dalish.

Elindra shut the door behind them when they entered the cabin. The cabin itself was small and packed full of jars and crates, and it smelled strongly of smoked fish. There was no light in there, but Elindra remedied that quickly by calling upon a fire spell to light the small lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the room. 

The High Keeper settled herself on one of the crates and motioned for them to do so as well, and they did that without question as well. Sar’een was starting to feel like maybe she would get to get a taste of her childhood...in a sound tongue-lashing from her hahren when she had done something wrong. 

Not exactly what she had hoped for, in any case.

“I will be blunt,” Elindra started as she eyed the two of them shrewdly. “The High Keepers of the territories have been offended by your stunt in Wycome, myself included. That we were not consulted on any of the plans in the works there is absolutely unacceptable.”

“Time was of the essence, hahren,” Sar’een tried to explain. “I had to make decisions very quickly. We are trained from our youth to make hard--”

“ _Hard choices_ , yes, I know,” she interrupted her. “I reconstructed the training methods for Firsts myself. I know better than anyone what you are trained for. But most of the decisions that took place in Wycome were not in your capacity as Keeper, but as Inquisitor to the Chantry.”

“Hahren, I--”

“I could forgive an ambitious First their growing overzealous in their approach. Really, I can,” Elindra interrupted again with a grace that rivaled some of the masters of the Game in Orlais. “Merrill should know better than anyone how forgiving I can be of that. She was left to live in peace, despite the danger she posed to everyone around her, by my counsel to Marethari. Marethari did not heed my words, however, and look at how she ended up.”

Merrill said nothing, her face seemed to grow distant at all these reminders of her past. It made Sar’een’s blood boil.

“That’s not fair, hahren! Merrill--”

“Merrill made a choice and chose to leave her life. She took the clan’s artifacts with her into a human city, and most Keepers would not stand for such a betrayal. We are Keepers of the Lost Lore, and that Marethari threw it all a way was a foolish waste. It was by my good will that she wasn’t dealt with by other Keepers who were not so wasteful minded!”

“The Eluvian was corrupted. It killed Tamlen and nearly killed Mahariel. My clan wanted it gone. I took it and tried to make sure their sacrifices weren’t in vain,” Merrill said flatly. 

“By cavorting with a demon, if your former clan members’ reports are anything to go by,” Elindra shot back, but then looked between the two of them and sighed heavily. “You are both very young. Much of this is forgivable. But I cannot and _will not_ let the Chantry dictate how one of our clan lives. Do you understand me?”

“I’m not being controlled by the Chantry. The Inquisition is its own--”

“The Inquisition was given writ by the Chantry, funded by the Chantry, and put the new Divine on the Sunburst throne,” the High Keeper cut in hotly. “Or do you deny your role in placing Madame Vivienne on that pretty shemlen chair?”

“I don’t,” Sar’een gritted her teeth together when she spoke. This wasn’t just a lecture; it was a trial in and of itself. A judgement of both her and Merrill’s loyalties. “But the Chantry does not give me orders. They defer to me in most matters.”

“Do they now? And what matters are those?”

“Matters of policy. Economy. Trade. All types of things.”

“And you give them advice?” she pressed her.

Sar’een nodded, “Yes. And I send out supplies, reinforcements, and anything else they might need to solve issues. The Inquisition has been a stabilizing force in the south, not just for the Chantry.”

Elindra brought her hand to her chin and looked up at the ceiling of the cabin, “Strange. The Dales are in the south, and the clans there have not seen stability in years. Ralaferin has had to nourish them in all aspects, even as you sent aid to human cities affected by the war. What of us?”

“I have helped the clans in the Dales! There was a clan on the Exalted Plains who--”

“Who you did the bare minimum for? Or did you really think you were helping them such a great deal by giving them some paltry pelts and confirming dead bodies,” her interruptions would be infuriating if they weren’t so informed. “Where is the clan you helped now? Do you ever wonder that? Have you considered their well-being in the long hours you spend reading reports of human progress? While you smile to yourself when the Maiden sends missives on just how well your clan gets on with the shems now?”

“I’m--I’m doing my best--” her transformation to a child was nearly complete. Sar’een could barely form a sentence.

“For the humans, perhaps. Enacting a coup with the blood of your clan was short-sighted and reckless. Propping up your predecessor as an aid in the Wycome Union while you took her position was cruelly ambitious. And then encouraging a disgraced scion to act as your eyes and ears in your clan without any direct oversight?” Elindra sniffed as she laid out her complete patronization. “The People follow an Imperative of survival. It has kept us alive since the fall of the Dales, and it has kept us strong despite all the tribulations that accompanied it. Keepers like you have come and gone, and we have still survived.” 

Keeper Elindra stood up from her place and looked down on her, “Tell me da’len; why is our survival important?”

“Because...Because we’re the last Elvhen.” She couldn’t even get it out without a stutter.

“Is that all?”

Sar’een looked at her feet instead of facing the fact that she didn’t know where Elindra was leading her.

“Nothing to say now, it seems,” the High Keeper sneered at her, she was sure. “Well, I will educate you da’len, since it seems your mentor had forgotten. Our survival is important because we are the ones who chose freedom over chains. Because we wanted to keep our traditions alive instead of accepting the humans’ will. Because we wanted--” she stopped herself, but only briefly. “Not wanted. We _needed_ to preserve the things that humans would see destroyed. Our language. Our culture. Our very lives.”

“I know, hahren.”

“You know? Then you can see why your extended friendship with these human organizations is a greater threat to our survival than any scion who throws away her oaths for a tumble in the grass.”

“What can I do to show you I care about our people?” Sar’een asked frantically, the shame of the thorough browbeating almost too much to listen too. “And show that I’m not some shemlen lover who wants to bring us down from the inside?”

Elindra slowly squatted down and lowered herself to Sar’een’s level. With a gentle hand, she lifted up her chin and made her look directly into her eyes. They were a light blue, and sparkled as if they were the sea in the height of summer, but there was a tiredness in them that could not be hidden.

With a sigh, she stroked Sar’een’s jaw gently, “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I lost my temper. That was unbecoming of me.”

She said nothing, but tears welled in her eyes at the shame that would not seem to lift now. That it was in front of Merrill made it all the worse.

“The world is not a safe place for Dalish, da’len, and every Dalish life is precious to me. Losing them to famine, disease, human wars...it’s become far too much to take,” she explained softly. “Then to see you thrive under the Chantry’s banner, and everything you touch thrive as well...only for your people to be forgotten. We are not thriving, da’len. Lavellan grows, but so many other clans suffer.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing, for now,” Elindra released her and stood back up, then headed towards the door of the cabin. “Once we arrive in the Free Marches and I’ve spoken to the other Keepers and scions...then I will have answers for you.”

She made as if to leave, but Sar’een could leave it as this. She hopped up from her spot on the crate and followed behind her, “I want you to know that everything I’ve done for Lavellan, I mean to make it happen for other clans. It’s why I’ve worked so hard to build them up and to encourage good relations with the shemlen. I need this to be something bigger than the Dalish have been in the last four hundred years; otherwise, the humans will take advantage of my weakness.”

Elindra looked over her shoulder and squinted her eyes, as if to appraise her sincerity. 

“I want to believe that, Keeper Sar’een. It is quite difficult when the Chantry’s eye stares back at me from your armor.”

Without another word, she left them in the cabin that smelled of fish, and a sudden lurch underneath Sar’een’s feet signaled the _Meri’enaste_ casting off. They were leaving the port at Highever and would soon be on the Amaranthine en route to Wycome. She’d have to brood on the devastating scolding she received the entire way.

“Well…” Merrill broke the silence with a strange amount cheer. “It feels like home, doesn’t it?”

Sar’een breathed a small laugh, “Yeah. I guess it does.”

Home and family, family and home. Blame falling and blame being cast. No true answers, yet everyone seemed to have the solution to every problem. Sar’een had nearly forgotten how much of a child she had been when she left her clan to join the mission to the Conclave, but Keeper Elindra had a frightening way of bringing it all back. 

She supposed this was just how it would be for the coming weeks. There would be no war table meetings and no missions and no late night directives. Sar’een was back into the Dalish world, and in that place, she was as yet an untested Keeper with much to prove. 

The thought of it all made her marked hand start to ache. Even her magic was on edge, it seemed.

“So, since Keeper Elindra thinks we’re little children anyways….wanna go climb up the ropes of the mast and watch the harbor disappear?” Merrill asked.

Sar’een looked up towards her friend, who smiled at her warmly as she waited for an answer; she gave her a vigorous nod of her head.

“Last one to the top has to put a rotten fish her in bedroll.”


	66. Instrument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revas meets up with an old friend in Wycome; Sar'een gets reacquainted with the sea life.

Wycome reeked of the ocean.

The mornings weren’t so bad with their fresh air and gull cries, but when the sun set and the streets emptied and the citizens went to their homes and taverns and haunts, the warmth of bodies, the drip of sweat, the consumption of cheap ale, and the burning braziers combined with the smell of fish and brine to create a choking pungency. 

Revas covered his nose as he walked down Carnation Street, but it did no good. He could only hope that walking faster would keep him out of the night air for too long. He passed by new developments -- the workers tools abandoned as their shifts ended -- and saw some burned out buildings that still hadn’t been rebuilt. That waterlogged wood probably didn’t help with the smell.

But before a headache could come on and dash away his hopes for a entertaining evening, he turned a final corner and found himself at the doorstep of the shittiest tavern still standing in Wycome; and, the only one he felt was worth visiting.

The Whale’s Eye.

Lots had changed in Wycome since the coup, but this place hadn’t. It was still rotted and piss-soaked, full of dockworkers and vagabonds who wanted cheap booze and loud talking. So quintessentially elven, Revas could almost feel at home among all the pointed ears and bawdy boasting...had it not been for the fact that he was covered in tattoos that signaled him as the outsider. 

They were getting there, though. One day at a time, they were becoming the kin they always should’ve been.

“G’evening son, what can I get ya?”

The tavern’s serving wench stood in front of him at the entryway, arms crossed over her ample chest, waiting for his order. Behind her, all the tables were full of dockworkers who retired for the evening; drinking, laughing loudly, gossiping about their unreasonable shemlen bosses. They filled the air with their lives, making the hole-in-the-wall of a tavern seem warmer and more inviting than it truly was. 

Revas shook his head.

“Nothing right now. I’m looking for someone.”

“Ya can’t drink and look?” she pestered him. “Or are ya just here to drool over our girls like a lecher?”

“Trust me, I’m not going to be drooling over anyone here,” he replied. 

“Aye, ya think we’re not pretty enough for ya? Or you think yer too good for a serving girl on account of bein’ a halla shit eater?” the wench gave his forehead a smart __thunk__ with one of her knuckles. “Those tattoos leaked into yer head and took yer sense, son?”

Revas grabbed her hand as quick as the wind and pulled it away from his face, “I’m not your son.”

She ripped her hand away from his and shook it as if she’d been wounded, “Aye, you ain’t! My son knows his manners! Grabbin’ someone’s mother like that…I ought to box your ears, boy!”

“Lissy! Leave him alone! He’s a friend.”

Both Revas and Lissy turned their attention away from each other and towards the voice calling out to her. Yemet sat at a crude wooden table in the corner of the tavern, waving them down. 

“Shoulda figured it was one of yours,” Lissy looked him up and down once more in disgust, before pushing Revas out of her way. “Teach’im some manners for next time!”

Yemet gave a hearty laugh at Lissy’s complaints, but Revas ignored her entirely. He joined his friend at the table, sighing deeply as he sat down on the low, creaky stool, while Lissy went on her business of harassing everyone for drinks.

“Every damn time I come in here, the girls mess with me,” he grumbled. “I liked this place better when it was under siege.”

“That’s just their way of makin’ sure none of your Warlord bullshit goes to your head,” Yemet picked up the pitcher of ale sitting at the table and poured it into and extra mug. “Personally? I think your skull’s too dense to let anything through.”

“Go fuck a horse,” Revas snatched the mug out of Yemet’s hand and took a deep drink. 

“Says the knob that looks like one,” his friend shot back.

Revas lost his cool at that and nearly spat the ale from his mouth when he laughed, “A horse?”

“Yup,” Yemet leaned in and ran his hand over his jaw, but extended it beyond where his chin ended. “Loooooong in the face.”

“A thick-skulled horse. That’s one I haven’t heard before.”

“Doubt you’ve heard a lot of stuff folks are thinkin’...especially with that temper of yours. I’d bet Lissy’s isn’t the first hand you’ve grabbed like that.”

Revas nodded and resumed his drinking, “I’m working on it. Can’t afford that temper with two kids now.”

“Good. Can’t have you runnin’ around threatenin’ hard-working folks tryin’ to make a living; leave that up to the shems,” he rested both forearms on the table and leaned into them. “Aaah, you’ve gotten your lecture though. How’s the new little one? She doin’ better now?”

“Yeah. Sleeping, eating, spitting up her food in her mother’s hair...everything she’s supposed to.” There was still something off about her, but Revas didn’t want to get into that. Besides, if he mentioned how Mona hardly ever cried, Yemet might think there’s magic afoot. Best to keep it simple. “Been traveling so much though, I haven’t gotten to spend a lot of time with her. Elain is angry at me over it, I think.”

“Can’t rightly blame her,” Yemet said glumly. “Person I’m sweet on complainin’ about the same thing.” He stopped himself, then smirked. “Well, not about not takin’ care of babes. More like the not makin’ babes part, you know?”

“Yeah, I know it. Know it _too_ well. Once in last three months; worst part is it isn’t even bothering me.” Yemet let out a deep whistle and Revas drained the rest of the ale in his mug, then lifted it up above the table. “Between the work and the travel and the kids...feels like I’ve aged a fucking decade.”

Yemet poured him some more of the ale, “Before you know it, we’ll be talkin’ about our creakin’ backs and bad knees.”

“I’d rather not put on another ten years, if I can help it,” he took some more of the drink, and the tips of his ears started to burn with a buzz. _Good,_ he thought. _I need it._

“Well, we can sit here complainin’ all night and drink our worries away like all these sad sods…”

Yemet reached into the leather pouch tied to the belt at his waist and pulled out a small piece of parchment. 

“...or we could just get down to business.”

Revas grabbed the parchment out of his hand, “This what I think it is?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed. “Dictated by the Union’s scribe and signed by the Minister himself this morning. He got confirmation last night from the Silures that they’re gonna agree to the Union’s offer. Don’t know what you did to convince them, but Sal’s breathin’ easier now.”

“Miran went for it,” Revas tried not sound more relieved than he was. Up until this moment, he hadn’t known for sure if the old Warlord was going to accept the terms. 

“Sure did. I’m sendin’ fifty guards out their way to finish cleanin’ out their territory and help set up the basics,” Yemet leaned back in his chair and set the back of his head onto his hands. “Woulda just sent it to Lavellan on a bird, but seein’ as you got roped into meetin’ the Inquisitor, might as well give it to you now. All that’s left for you to do is make sure the Maiden follows through on her part.”

“She will,” he promised. “And Sal will honor his part?”

“Two thousand guards and recruits from the guilds across the Free Marches; all of ‘em can be ready at a moment’s notice,” Yemet’s voice was lowered now. “Shems ain’t gonna like knowin’ how many of us can form a coalition, though. Sendin’ them in all at once is askin’ for trouble.”

“I won’t need two thousand. Just enough to supplement my forces if the inevitable happens.”

“And just how likely is it to happen?” Yemet questioned him. 

Revas peered into his mug, swishing around the ale inside, “Don’t know yet. I’ll know more once the High Council gets underway. Just keep them ready for me.”

Yemet went quiet at that for a moment, mimicking Revas as he looked at his own drink. He was no doubt pondering the odds of everything he had been told and weighing his options. Revas couldn’t blame him; Yemet wasn’t Dalish, and he had no stakes in this High Council. Putting his eggs in the wrong basket could mean a lot more than losing an ally in Lavellan...it could mean losing everything they had built in Wycome. 

“You could just bring her and your kids here, you know,” he put the other option out there for Revas, letting it hang in the air. “We’d get you set up in a nice house in the Administration District, just like Deshanna. I’d make you my field commander and let you lead skirmishes outside the city, and your girl could ride on Sal’s heels. No more troubles, no more worryin’, no more Dalish bullshit. Just you and your family. Safe. Could make for a fine life.”

“You know we can’t do that, Yemet.”

“Why not? ‘Cos you got some fucked up pride over what gods your parents made you worship?” Yemet wasn’t convinced. “Lissy’s right; you ain’t better than this.”

Revas sighed deeply, “It’s not about being better. It’s just about being what I am. A person can’t change their bones. I’m Dalish. Elain is Dalish. Our kids are Dalish. We live a different life than you live, and we can’t just give it all up.”

Yemet drank from his mug, and the levity from earlier in their evening was all but gone from his demeanor. The man left was tense; as wound up taut as a bowstring. He most definitely was not convinced.

“I know I’m asking for a lot, but it’s not like I haven’t done a lot for this city--”

“Cut the bullshit, Revas,” Yemet cut in abruptly. “I don’t need you to start ramblin’ off all the great deeds you did to save the poor, helpless flat ears from destruction. No one’s denyin’ all you and your kin did here. What I’m doin’ is tryin’ to make you see some sense before you throw it all away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Revas said darkly. “I’m making sure it counts for something.”

“By raisin’ up an army so that your wife gets to wear a fur shawl? We’ve only been set up here for a little over a year and __this__ is what you want to test the boundaries of shem tolerance with. Raisin’ a _ _fuckin’ army__.”

“If you didn’t like the idea, you could’ve said _‘no_ ’ when I brought it up in the first place,” Revas shot back. 

Yemet glared at him openly now, “I only went along because it was already a done thing by the time I got involved. The Maiden and Sal already hashed out plans for that clan in the western Marches. You were just the messenger boy deliverin’ me the ultimatum.”

“It wasn’t like that. You were involved from the start. From all the way back when we set up the Union and you asked me to work with you in cross training your guards,” Revas reminded him. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were asking then.”

His glare dulled at that, and the tightness he had held his brow seemed to loosen, leaving nothing a but a tired looking elf underneath. 

“I knew, yeah,” Yemet admitted sadly. “Knew, but didn’t understand how far it would go. Two thousand folks pulled together under my protection. Enough to give the Free Army a run for its breeches. And they all wait for my orders. That’s more power than I asked for.”

“You didn’t ask for any of it.”

“Hmph. Lot of good that does me now. Didn’t ask for it, still gotta deal with it. This ain’t goin’ away on account of my not bein’ able to cope.”

It was Revas this time who picked up the pitcher of ale and poured more in Yemet’s mug, “I don’t blame you for losing your nerve over it. Having that many people counting on you never gets any easier. It’s always seems to be just one bad day away from falling apart.”

Yemet drained his newly refilled mug, then tapped it on the table with a hard _clunk_ , “What do you do to keep from havin’ a bad day?”

“Try not to think about it,” he answered honestly. “Go with my gut. Surround myself with people I trust.”

Yemet fidgeted with the mug, tipping it back and forth idly on its base, “And that’s all it takes?”

“That, and luck,” Revas split a grin for his friend. “But I heard the best thieves are just the luckiest.”

It earned a chuckle from Yemet, “You heard right.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”

He didn’t say anything further, but subtly nodded his head in agreement and raised his mug up in the air. Revas followed his lead, and they tapped their drinks together in toast. 

“To being the luckiest sons of bitches this side of the Minanter.”

They both downed the rest of their ale and went back to the easy companionship that they had managed to find in all the chaos the last couple of years had brought. A horse-faced halla shit-eater and a former thief turned Guard Captain.

_Lucky indeed._

“So...any other news for me?” Revas asked him. 

“Yeah, something big...” Yemet’s smile turned to a sly grin.

“What do you know about Mythal?”

\---

The Amaranthine was not an easy path to sail. It shunned new sailors and experienced mariners alike, with its monstrous waves and dark waters. One mistake meant the fate of one’s ship; one miscalculation could destroy lives; one miniscule slip could end your own. 

It is why the Dalish associated the seas with their god, Dirthamen -- Keeper of Secrets. The seas jealously guarded their secrets, and those who could not respect them and the power they held were doomed to the same fate as a blasphemous elf cursing a God. Dirthamen’s domain was dark waters, and there were none darker than those Sar’een saw in the middle of the night on the Amaranthine.

As she stood next to the prow of the ship and looked over into those fathomless depths, she might have even been awed by the power the god held in there….if she still believed in gods.

But Sar’een had seen herself what Mythal was, and her heart found no reverence in the things that used to ignite her passion for learning and obeying the Dalish imperative. Still, there was no drive to seek out answers in other beliefs either. Mythal was a human witch who wouldn’t die, and Andraste was a human witch who did. There were no greater powers watching over anyone. Only the strong preying on the powerless’ faith. 

She needed to live with that, no matter how bitter the ashes of disillusionment tasted in her mouth. Even more so, she needed to live with watching as her people went through the motions of displacing her friend over a goddess that didn’t exist and oaths that meant nothing. None of it meant anything. All of it was a stage to fill some hollow agenda.

But living with it was difficult, understanding she meant as much as a speckle of foam on this great sea,and it made her sleep nearly impossible; so here she stood, looking over the edge of the creaking __Meri’enaste__ , her heart longing for her innocence and a different time, where everything was easier. But the ship could not take her back to those days, and the sea still kept its secrets, even if no god resided there.

Just as she resigned herself to go back below deck and try her hand at sleeping again, the sea started to sing. A deep, melancholic voice seemed to rise with the waves, and with it, the haunting melody played on a __dirthsalahn,__ a Dalish lute. 

_Oh, come to me my darling!_

_Into the sea we will go_

_Under the dark depths tumbling_

_Caught by the undertow!_

The sea sung the song in Elvhen, but Sar’een remembered the words. It was an old love song, one about the dangers of falling in love to fast and drowning in it. It was the first song children in Clan Merisal would learn, and the words had stuck with her all this time.

Sar’een turned away from the darkness of the Amaranthine and saw on the deck of the ship, her aunt turning the crank on her __dirthsalahn__ as she sat on a crate and let the lyrics slip from her lips. Anywhere else, it would feel like a regular evening with singing and laughing. But here on the ocean, her song only found the waves to hear. That they crashed on the ship in time with the beats of the words made Sar’een shiver.

Once her aunt saw that she had caught her attention, she put down her instrument and smiled at her, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Sar’een smiled back, “No, I couldn’t.”

“Been too long since you’ve been at sea, da’len. You used to sleep so well when you made trips with me.”

Sar’een shrugged as she walked over to her aunt, “You always wore me out by letting me swim in the shallow waters all day. No such luck on this trip.”

Kala let out a chuckle, “I could toss you in there, if you like.” She pointed to the ocean with her chin. “Should put you to sleep rather quick.”

“A sleep I’m not ready for yet, hahren,” she answered softly. “There’s still too much to do.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Sar’een settled herself against the wood of the cabin next to her aunt’s makeshift stage, “So do you come out here every night to sing?”

Kala looked down on her dirthsalahn and shrugged, “Mostly. The sea needs her songs, or else she gets restless. And those who abide by her get restless too. I give her the Old Songs, and she gives me comfort I cannot find anywhere else in the world.”

“Does it really?” Sar’een asked curiously. “I’m a bit frightened by it. The sea seems so...alive.”

“That’s because she is. As alive as the earth and the mountains and lakes and the rivers. They were here long before us and hold memories we could only dream of obtaining. The Creators understood that they must be respected, and that’s why they are so closely associated with these parts of the world. The rest of us can learn from what places like the sea can offer.”

“Hmm,” was all she could say. How could she tell her aunt that the Creators had as much respect for this world as a flea to a dog?

“Well, that’s enough of that for the moment,” Kala set her dirthsalahn down next to her on the deck.“I have some, uh...issues I wanted to talk about.”

It was a relief Sar’een didn’t have to think more about the gods, though she suspected this would be another lecture for her to endure, “Like what?”

Kala cleared her throat nervously, “It was nice of you to bring Merrill back. She really has been gone from clan life too long.”

“It was her choice, but we don’t always treat our own with the empathy necessary to keep people like Merrill with us.”

“Something you’d change?” she asked her, though she was as transparent as shallow water. _A test then_ , Sar’een thought.

“Me? I’m just trying to keep my clan alive. It’s hard enough without having to worry about other clans too,” she answered truthfully, then sighed deeply. “Which is apparently part of my responsibilities, according to Elindra.”

Her aunt let out a deep, low sigh, “Don’t try to rock the ship here, Sar’een. It’s not going to get you anywhere in this High Council.”

“I thought we were talking about Merrill?” she tilted her head to question her. “And speaking of that...what’s all this concern for Merrill over? Clan Sabrae didn’t seem to be too broken over her departure, and she’s been living with city elves for years. Why are you _personally_ so upset over it?”

Kala shook her head, “You always did ask a lot of questions, didn’t you?”

“I enjoy learning,” she answered dryly. “What I’d really like to understand is what this is all about. I haven’t seen you in years, and all you can worry about is Merrill.”

Her aunt stared at her shrewdly, like a bird honing in on her meal. She was taking her in again, judging her, and it left Sar’een feeling impatient. She was sick of it already.

“Elves are going missing, da’len,” she finally saw fit to give her an answer. “Our people are disappearing. No one knows why, but it didn’t start happening until all this started with the Eluvians. I know you use them. I know Merrill left her clan because of them.”

“What do you mean __missing__? And what are you insinuating?”

“Up and gone in some cases, with a note about following their dreams. But most of the time, just….vanished. No note, no belongings missing, nothing to indicate they’ve even gone but the emptiness they leave behind,” Kala explained. “I want to believe it’s got nothing to do with Merrill. I want to believe you had nothing to do with this. Please tell me it’s a coincidence.”

Sar’een’s gut sank at the revelation,”Dalish elves have been disappearing?”

“Yes,” her aunt affirmed solemnly. “At least a dozen from clans in the south. Two from my own.”

“ _ _Fenedhis__...it’s not a coincidence,” she pushed off the cabin of the ship and began to pace the deck. “Gods, if only it were.”

Kala followed her, “What? What happened? What have you done?”

“It wasn’t me,” she tried to focus on the sound of her boots travelling over wood instead of the beat of her heart in her chest, but it was difficult. “City elves have been disappearing too. A whole family from the staff at Skyhold, then soon after, others in Halamshiral. Ambassador Briala even mentioned some from Denerim. The same story for each of them; vanished as if into thin air.”

She dared not say how she suspected the Eluvians were involved. Kala was her aunt, but the Eluvians were the livelihood of the elves across Thedas. She could not trust just anyone with something so powerful.

“So, it’s not the Inquisition and the Chantry abducting Dalish from their clans to recruit them, then,” Kala breathed out. A smile curled on her lips afterwards. “Told Elindra it sounded like rubbish. Glad to hear I was right.”

“Elindra thought I did this?”

She shook her head, “No, Elindra thought the __Inquisition__ did this. She doesn’t separate you from them.”

Sar’een’s shoulders went limp at the realization, and with a resigned sigh, she leaned over the side of the ship to look at the sea once more. Her aunt followed her lead and did the same.

“Not all of us think like that,” Kala tried to assure her, but it rang hollow. “Most clans know you’re trying to make things better for the elves.”

“Do they? Or do they see the Chantry’s Eye like Elindra does?” Sar’een pressured her. The reasoning for Elindra’s verbal boxing made sense now, but it didn’t sit with her any less heavily. 

Kala looked at her quietly, her face projecting some sort of pity that she resented to see, “Do you really want the truth?”

“I am not a child, aunt Kala. I’ve been forged in battle with my hands and my mind. Nothing you can tell me will make me cower,” she answered sharply. 

“Fine,” she still held that look of pity though, and it only angered Sar’een more. “Truth is...the Chantry can’t be trusted. And because they can’t be trusted, neither can the Inquisition. The People have been burned too much to put faith in an organization that thinks us faithless.”

“After all I’ve done…”

“All you’ve done?” Kala asked incredulously. “You’ve made them __stronger__ , da’len. They were all but defeated! They were a shadow of their former self, with nothing to unify them. So they put all their resources into supporting you and the Inquisition, because in the end, they knew that all that trust the common folk of Thedas put in you would pay them in dividends. Everything you’ve done will be theirs to claim, and there’ll be nothing you can do to stop it. I refuse to believe you’re so naive you can’t see it.”

“I have no intention of handing over anything to them, hahren,” Sar’een replied calmly. It did not feel good to hear these things from her elders, but she was glad she was hearing them now so she could head the problems off. “I didn’t save Wycome for the Chantry. I didn’t negotiate land rights for Lavellan for the Chantry. I didn’t order the Maiden to build the settlement up and strengthen their ties with the Free Marches’ alienages for the Chantry. I did it because I refuse to let what happened in Halamshiral happen again. Wycome and Lavellan will not be burned to the ground on the whim of a petty human.”

Kala snickered at her little monologue, making her cheeks blush hotly, “You really believe that, huh? You believe you’re changing the world, one clan at a time?”

“I’m at least trying to!” she shot back. “It’s better than just letting the opportunity I have go to waste! Or worse, sitting around for four hundred years and hope the shems will destroy themselves!”

Her aunt said nothing at that, and instead, straightened her back and stared out over the dark waters of the Amaranthine. And though she did not open her mouth to speak, there was no silence on the sea. The waves still hit the ship, and the ocean itself spoke in hushed whispers and dull tones. A low, cresting moan; a subtle, pained gasp. It was alive as they were on that ship, and for the first time, it made Sar’een feel ill.

The living sea reminded her she was never truly alone; there was always someone there to judge her and what she had done, and if need be, swallow her whole as punishment for it.

“You’ve been away from Merisal for too long, da’len,” when Kala spoke again, it was quiet; barely a whisper above the waters. “Thank your damned father and his silly notions of notoriety.”

“Father wanted a better future for himself and your sister. I did more than fine in Lavellan.”

Kala slowly shook her head in disagreeance, “If you’d stayed here, you’d know that changing isn’t all it’s cut out to be.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” she said glumly. 

“Apparently you do, or else we wouldn’t be in this situation,” her aunt reprimanded her. It made her ears twitch. Sar’een was so tired of lectures. “Our hunters know that the sea changing is a sign of terrible things to come. Storms to weather, hardships to overcome…and death.”

“Lavellan knows all about Death, hahren. We patron the Lady of the Hunt.”

“You know nothing, dearest,” she said softly. “The Lady seeks out Death. Just like you have, just like your clan has. You’ve gone hunting for a better future in the chaos that these shemlen caused. You think your careful plots and plans will keep you safe from being hurt in the process. But any hunter who lives their life on the sea knows better.”

Sar’een turned her gaze upwards like her aunt’s and watched the moonlight gleam off the dark waves that rose and fell in the distance. It truly was a living thing, breathing the night air as surely as they did on the deck of the __Meri’enaste__. Her aunt was right in that regard.

“And what do they know better, Keeper Kala?” she asked, though in her heart, she already knew the answer. Kala pushed off the edge of the ship and turned to leave, only giving her answer as a departure.

“They know that in a sea change...nothing is ever safe.”

Her aunt left, taking herself and her dirthsalahn back below deck, and Sar’een was once again alone with the sea. And even though Kala had gone, she could still hear the song she had sang in her ears, as if someone from a thousand years ago had sung it and it only now reached her.

Sar’een leaned ever so carefully over the deck, and listened to the song as if the sea truly were singing it. If she closed her eyes, she might even believe it. But as she looked upon the dark waters reflecting the bright moonlight, she could still see her reflection on the surface; distorted, warped, mocking her and her existence and every decision she had ever made.

And when Sar’een looked even closer, the reflection showed that it was her lips who moved to make the song that sounded so unfathomably out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All apologies to Beck and me ripping off some lyrics from his song, "Little One". _In a sea change/nothing is safe_


End file.
